


At Your Service

by Mottlemoth, WakingTheWindstorm (TheDav1005)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angsty Past Greg, Assassins, Bibliophile Mycroft, Bodyguard AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Greg to the rescue, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Loves Cats, Oblivious Boys So In Love, Past Drug Use, Pining, Protective Greg, Quick Alternating POV, Rampant Feelings, Romance, Security au, Slow Burn, Smut, endless pining, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-05-07 01:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 192,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14660514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDav1005/pseuds/WakingTheWindstorm
Summary: [Mystrade Bodyguard AU]Drago Kovácic is dead. Whoever killed him left no trace and Mycroft's superiors are convinced he's next in line. The safest option is to ramp up Mycroft's security until the threat is over, with a dedicated bodyguard to accompany him at all times—whether he likes it or not.The arrival into Mycroft's life of handsome security professional Greg Lestrade rather changes things. Greg is charming, easy-going and gorgeous—and Mycroft soon has a very different problem on his hands. Will their professional relationship stay professional? Will Greg be able to keep Mycroft safe? And will the shadows of the past prove too much for them to handle?





	1. Cushy

**Author's Note:**

> _At Your Service_ has been created through roleplay between WakingTheWindstorm and Mottlemoth. Davi is playing the delicious Greg and the lovely Anthea, while the roles of Mycroft and Jinx Maguire are played by Moth.
> 
> We'd love to hear what you think, so drop us a comment and let us know. You can also come say hi over on Tumblr.
> 
> We really hope you like the story... much love to you all. x

Greg rolled his neck and sighed as he felt it pop. His last assignment hadn’t been particularly strenuous, just long and tedious. A spoiled diplomat, convinced of his own superiority. Greg had been there for a show of power as much as for protection. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, clearing his mind. That assignment was done, and hopefully he’d have some time off before---

His mobile pinged, and he groaned. He should have known better than to think of things like  _ ‘time off’ _ while still inside the building. He checked the message. It was from his supervisor, Alex Kenman.

 

_ New assignment came down the pipe. Long term. Live-in. Lehrmann wants to see you in person. Now. _

 

Greg held in the rude noise he wanted to make. Seriously? He had  _ just _ finished the debrief from his previous assignment, he was dead on his feet, and the head honcho wanted to see him  _ now _ ?

He bit his tongue and rubbed his face. It would be fine. He could handle this. He was a grown up, dammit, and a professional. Everything would be fine.

Shaking off some of his fatigue, he trudged down the hallway and into the elevator. A quick press of a button, a few moments of silence as the elevator transported him up. He walked down the hallway and stopped in front of the office marked  _ Susan Lehrmann _ . He took a deep breath, knocked, then pushed the door open and peered around it. "Ma’am? You wanted to see me? Kenman said something about a new assignment?"

*

 

Mrs Lehrmann ('Sue', if you played your cards right) glanced up over her tea cup. A smart, well-groomed women of fifty-five, she had the briskness of manner that came from a life spent working in security, and flashing feline eyes that brooked no shenanigans. Her reputation was of a woman hard to anger - but God help you if you did.

Spotting him in the doorway, she gave Greg a little smile. Today's lipstick was an eye-catching coral. It augmented the wry curve of her cupid's bow, and matched the earrings. She had somehow contrived to transfer no lipstick whatsoever to her tea cup.

"Ah, Lestrade..." One pristinely-arched eyebrow lifted. "Do come in - take a seat. I understand your assignment with Anthony Kavanagh was a success?"

 

*

 

Greg stepped in and closed the door behind himself. He sat carefully, perched at the edge of the (admittedly comfortable) chair. "Yes, ma’am," he said, inclining his head respectfully. "No incidents." He bit his lip, and decided on honesty. "Well, no incidents I couldn’t handle. The details are in the report."

The stupid man had decided that ‘diplomatic immunity’ meant he could get drunk at a hotel bar, flirt with anything in a skirt, and cop a feel on the waitresses. When asked to leave, he had gotten belligerent, and Greg had stepped in to save him from himself. It had taken twenty minutes to get the man upstairs to his room, and another ten to get him into bed. He hated being a glorified babysitter, but at least it paid well.

He ran a hand through his silver hair and resisted the temptation to lean back. Sitting down had brought on a fresh wave of exhaustion. "Sorry, ma’am," he managed, blinking and sitting forward, elbows on his knees. His shoulders slumped, just a little. "It’s---been a long day." A four hour flight, a three hour drive, two hours for the debrief. He tried to think of the last time he had slept.  _ Too damn long ago. _

"Forgot to grab a coffee," he said, a hint of a self-deprecating smile on his lips. He was well aware of what he looked like: disheveled from travel and not enough sleep, slight bags from too many nights up looking after his ward, and perhaps a bit smelly. Planes and cars didn’t exactly leave one fresh as a daisy. He felt even more ragged compared to the razor-sharp put-together ensemble of the woman opposite him.

 

*

 

Sue was very used to weary, ragged-looking gentleman sitting before her desk - and she knew the look of a man in dire need of caffeine.

In truth, she'd always had something of a soft spot for Lestrade. He was a little too hard-working, and a little too honest. Both were traits she admired greatly. A lot of the men on her books with gruff and sullen, and reminded her of her sulky teenage son. Lestrade was a rare gem - a people person, working in security - and he always remembered  _ ma'am. _

With a small smile, she turned in her office chair and switched on the kettle.

When the mug of strong coffee was placed into Greg's hands, with a sparkling eye and no comment, his employer resumed her chair.

"Drink as you listen," she advised, opened up a nearby manila folder, and slid it across the desk for him to see. "I'm aware you've dealt mostly in short-term assignments, but I believe you might be a good match for this one. Broaden your CV, as it were. The client is technically the British government - though you'd be assigned to one of their high-level consultants as a live-in bodyguard. He's under no immediate threat, already has some measure of security around him during the day, and the MI5 background suggests he's already careful with his personal safety. The property itself is just outside of London. Excellent location. All your daily needs would be provided for - and the compensation would be  _ significant." _

She held Greg's eye for a moment. Sue Lehrmann didn't use that word lightly.

"Some international travel," she added. "A six-month contract initially. If I haven't made it quite clear enough yet, Lestrade... 'cushy', in a word."

She flipped a page in the manila file.

Official MI5 photographs appeared: one head shot, and one full-length image, of a gentleman of roughly Greg's age - auburn hair, pale-skinned, a blue-grey gaze that was at once weary, intelligent, and rather guarded. For his file photograph, he'd been required to wear a simple white shirt with an open collar. He didn't look particularly happy about it.

The vital statistics recorded in the file gave his name as Mycroft Charles Philip Holmes, his date of birth as 17th October, his height as 1.85m, and his only known allergen to be latex.

 

*

 

Greg accepted the coffee gratefully. Much better than the crap he bought for his own flat, by far. It was ruined a little bit when the word  _ significant _ came up and he choked, but he didn’t spill any, at least. After pressing the back of his hand to his mouth and clearing his throat a little, he resumed staring at the file in front of him. 

His first thought, post-coffee choke, was,  _ hot damn _ , for a number of reasons. One, a long-term contract  _ would _ look good on his CV, cement him as someone solid and reliable. Two, ‘cushy’ didn’t even begin to cover it. If the British government was paying for this, there would be no expense spared (and the services of this particular company weren’t cheap to begin with). Three, there was something intriguing about the man he was going to be guarding. 

_ Something intriguing. Be honest, Lestrade, he’s a tall drink of water. Keep it to yourself, _ he scolded himself, making sure to keep the thought off his face. He was a professional, God dammit, and the appearance of his client mattered not one whit.

He sat back, taking a moment to finish off the coffee. He turned the cup in his hands for a moment before looking up. "This---sounds amazing, ma’am," he said honestly. "I do have a couple questions, though, if I may?"

 

*

 

Sue smiled, fondly amused by his politeness. Some of the men who passed in front of her desk could barely manage a grunt, let alone a conversation. In truth, it was why she'd thought Lestrade would suit this assignment - a long-term, live-in bodyguard had to have the people skills to get on well with their employer. Nobody wanted a sullen, shaven-headed lump of muscle living in their home. 

She'd never known Lestrade to aggravate or annoy a client; she doubted the man had a bad bone in his body. 

And the individual who'd contacted the agency, asking about the contract for Mr Holmes, had warned that he might be... particular in his choices. Sue had been advised to send someone professional, someone grounded, who was both hard to unsettle and easy to like.

She couldn't think of anyone who fit those criteria better.

"Do go ahead," she said, reaching delicately for her tea cup. "I'll answer them, if I can."

 

*

 

Greg blew out a breath and rubbed his hands together, letting the cup rest in his lap. "First of all, is my security clearance going to need to be raised for this?" he asked. 

At this point in his career, he had a decent amount of clearance, but he wasn’t privy to top-secret information by any means. Getting additional clearance would mean more interviews, more prying into his family life. 

Not that a certain amount of prying hadn’t already been done, and it wasn’t as though he had anything to hide anymore. All his dirty secrets were in some secret file, somewhere, inaccessible to anyone lower than Sue. But it did mean that he would have to jump through hoops, be assessed again, have people look into his contacts (few), associations outside of work (fewer), and his personal life (essentially non-existent).

He would need to prepare for that, and wanted to warn Melody and her family, if he could.

Melody. Greg’s heart twanged. "Will I---Is communicating with people outside the house allowed?" he asked, trying to keep the pain off his face. He had been assigned to more than one client where radio silence had been enforced. 

His little sister, his brother-in-law, and his nieces were used to it by now, but he hated the necessity of it. They were his only family, as far as he was concerned, and he hated having to be out of contact for them for long periods of time. If he wasn’t allowed to speak with them for six months… 

Even with the remuneration and perks, he would have to think long and hard about taking the job. They were all he had left, now, and to be unable to even speak to them by phone once or twice a month would be nearly unbearable.

 

*

 

"Yes," Sue said, and took a mild sip of her tea. "On both counts. Mr Holmes's exact role within the government hasn't been specified even to me - make of that what you will - but I can tell you the contract I signed this morning was the size of a paving slab. There's one for you as well... assuming you're interested in the assignment, of course, and that the meeting with Mr Holmes goes well - and that he finds you suitable."

Placing the tea cup down, Sue gave Greg a small smile and folded her hands together.

"So far as I understand," she said, "you'll be permitted a rather generous amount of normal life. It's live-in, so naturally you'll need to be present in the house whenever Mr Holmes is - but many of his ordinary working days take place at Whitehall. Highly secure surroundings. This means you'll often be able to take those hours as leave. There'll be variations in this pattern - international travel, for instance - or, if Mr Holmes is working away from Whitehall, you'll be expected to accompany him - but as a general rule, this assignment should flow rather smoothly from day-to-day. I understand that Mr Holmes's residence has a number of security features already, so you're not expected to be on duty at night. Simply present in the house, in case of emergency."

 

*

 

Greg’s brow arched when he heard that even Sue hadn’t been told precisely what the client’s position was. That would probably translate to a  _ lot _ of security checks on top of the paving slab of a contract. His head hurt a little just thinking about it.

The impending headache eased, however, at the news that he would be allowed a fairly normal life. He smiled a little and shifted his weight. "Great. That’s---great," he said, eyes sparkling. He could see his family during this assignment, even more so than when he was off-duty. 

Depending on when the client--  _ Mr. Holmes, _ he reminded himself--arrived at and departed from Whitehall, it was possible that he could take Shannon and Adrienne for a day trip somewhere. They would like that; aged eight, the twins were energetic and rowdy, and Melody always appreciated it when Greg could take them off her hands for a little while.

He blinked hard and brought his thoughts back to the present. Focus. He needed to focus. The exhaustion was starting to creep up on him, even with the bracing coffee. 

"This sounds pretty ideal, ma’am," he said. His gaze turned shrewd. "So what’s the catch? If you don’t me asking." A very lucrative, long term contract, with hours of leave essentially every day, room and board, and occasional international travel? There had to be a hell of a razorblade in a candy apple this shiny. 

Perhaps Mycroft Holmes was simply unbearable to be around, or he had a habit of taking advantage of staff members. Greg didn’t think so; the man seemed too aloof for such things, but you never knew. People were a constant surprise.

 

*

 

Sue rested her chin on one hand; her eyes twinkled.

"For some," she said, "the job itself would be the catch... long-term. Possibly rather dull. The humdrum of a single person's daily life." 

Then - supposing Lestrade deserved the entire cache of truth she'd been given, small as it was - she added,

"I understand that Mr Holmes is - accustomed to his privacy. He has no family of his own, and few contacts outside of work... all very much by choice. He has a rather  _ independent _ streak, shall we say?"

She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head upon her hand.

"I've been warned that he's likely to reject a number of candidates just to make a point. He'll  _ have  _ to accept one of them, eventually - this is a mandatory requirement he now needs to comply with - but finding a match he'll agree to could be tricky. I think you're by far the best man for the job. I think it suits your skills, your temperament, your experience... so I'm sending you in first, and we'll see."

She reached for her tea cup, sticking out her little finger as she sipped.

"There'll be an initial meeting between you and Mr Holmes," she said, "so he can have a look at you. He'll be expecting a grunting bruiser with a bald head, a facial scar and a Slavic accent. I suggest you wear a nice suit and smile a lot."

 

*

 

Greg listened quietly, nodding a little as she described the possibility of rejection. He had to bite back a grin at her last few statements.  _ Have a look at me, eh? _  "A nice suit and a smile, huh? I can probably rustle those up."

‘Grunting bruiser with a bald head and facial scar’ described probably 60 percent of his coworkers, and ‘Slavic accent’ added another 20. Greg knew he was an outlier in the security field; apparently this time around, it would work for him rather than against him. "Been told I clean up decently," he added. He couldn’t hold back a grin. "Just as well he’s not looking for a Slavic accent; Viktor told me my impression’s rubbish."

He shifted his weight again, grin dimming into an honest smile. In the few interactions between himself and Mrs. Lehrmann, Greg had always appreciated her forthright, straightforward manner. She was honest and brusque, and wouldn’t try to hide anything from him if she could help it. 

With that in mind, this job sounded pretty bloody close to perfect.

He took a breath and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "I probably shouldn’t be making this decision on six hours of sleep in 48 hours, but I’ve made more important decisions on less. I accept the opportunity. I know that doesn’t mean I have the job, just that I’ll get a meeting with Mr. Holmes, but I’ll give it my best shot. I truly appreciate that you thought of me for this, ma’am. I won’t let you down."

 

*

 

_ Oh, Lestrade... if I was twenty years younger. _

"You can always turn it down," Sue said, smiling. "If you meet Holmes, and the man is unbearable, I expect you to tell me that straightaway. Successful live-in partnerships need mutual respect at the very least. Otherwise, they become hell for both parties." 

She reached for her tea cup.

"If you're going to spend most of your time with the man, Lestrade, and he's insufferable, then - "

Her desk phone began to ring. She glanced at it wearily, putting down the cup.

"I've suggested an initial meeting for seven PM tomorrow night," she said, over the noise. "Here in my office. You'll have coffee together, and Mr Holmes might tell you a little more about his household. Or he might test you and try to break you. We shall see. Does that suit?"

Her eyebrows lifted.

 

*

 

His throat tightened for half a second at ‘mutual respect, at least’. Greg had more than his share of experience with live-in relationships (of several kinds) devolving and becoming hell. He swallowed the memories down, as he always did, and found a small smile, nodded as he stood. "Yes, ma’am."

He set the cup down on the edge of her desk, wincing apologetically at leaving a dirty dish for her. He didn’t want to run off with it, however, so it was the best he could manage. "Seven PM tomorrow night," he repeated. "I’ll be here, ma’am. And thank you, again." He began edging backwards out of her office, aware that he wasn’t privy to whatever conversation that phone call might be.

Besides, his flat was calling his name. A shower, maybe a shave, and face-first into bed.

And then off to meet what could well be his future. Greg found himself looking forward to it.

 


	2. Tactical Bomb

_"Preposterous."_

Mycroft thought he had no other words for it - then he found a few more.

"Incorrigible. Senseless. _Outrageous."_ He faced his assistant across the desk, his eyes flashing with fury. He knew the file now held beneath her arm contained candidates from the agency for him to peruse - _a catalogue of thugs,_ he thought - a prospectus of shaven-headed louts, one of whom was now going to be lurching about his home forever more. He couldn't bear it.

He was used to stupid bloody decisions from his colleagues and subordinates - but from his superiors, he expected far better.

"Farcical," he snapped. _"That's_ what this is. A waste of resources. A waste of my _patience._ And I had little of it remaining already. _Twenty-four hour guard?_ When no threat whatsoever has been made against me? I can barely credit it."

Her dignified silence only infuriated him more.

"This is because of Kovácic, isn't it?" he demanded. "The man was an idiot. He hadn't a crumb of self-preservation, and all the sense of raspberry jam. He was a disgrace to MI5. It's a marvel he didn't get himself assassinated years ago. And because he's now unbearable enough to be dead, _I_ have to permit some knuckle-headed, grunting oaf to barge around after me for my every waking moment. As if _all of us_ from the Stražar Project are now going to be assassinated. For God's sake."

He seized this morning's cold cup of earl grey, drained it in one and slammed the cup back down.

It did not help.

"The sheer _audacity_ of it!" he bit out. "Even to specify that his room _must be next to mine!_ The very layout of my home is now beyond my sphere of control, is it? I'm surprised they haven't ordered that we have to share a bloody bunk-bed. This is _unacceptable."_

He stared at his assistant, furiously.

Silence fell.

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched.

"I am not being unreasonable," he added, with a look of warning.

 

*

 

It was only years of training and extreme self control that kept the cool, professional blankness on Anthea's face. Inside, she was giggling hysterically. She _never_ saw her employer so worked up; not in the face of international crisis, not when the people he had to deal with were being idiots, not when everything had completely gone to shit and they were flying blind.

In fairness to him, she had to admit, it was a _touch_ overmuch to insist that so many 'government officials' take personal bodyguards. And Mr. Holmes (she couldn't call him Mycroft, not even in her head) was an exceedingly private person; having someone around at almost all times was sure to drive him up the wall if they weren't careful.

Lucky for them, then, that she believed she had screened out the worst of the worst. She had carefully arranged the file in her arms thusly: a few undesirable candidates, a few candidates he would tolerate grudgingly, and then the profile of one Gregory Sebastian Lestrade.

She had practically rubbed her hands together with glee when she had found _that_ one. He was a little older than the others, but still fit and healthy, certainly up to the task of guarding Mr. Holmes. Distinguished salt-and-pepper hair that was more salt than pepper, charming eyes, and the hint of a grin even in his employee identification picture. From what she could tell in the file, Lestrade was easy-going, dependable, and calm under pressure. All things he would need to deal with her boss.

Besides. She had her secret weapon stored on her mobile. A tactical bomb, if you would.

She stepped forward briskly, heels muted in the carpeted office. "Just so, sir," she said calmly, once he was done with his current fit of temper. "That as may be, it _has_ been ordered. Here you are." She laid the file on his desk and took two quick steps backwards out of the blast radius. "A few of our options, sir. If you don't like the look of any of them, I can have another selection put together for you within the hour." She had, in fact, three other packets made up already. She was fairly certain that this one contained the winner, though.

She crossed her mental fingers, just in case.

 

*

 

Mycroft scoffed.

"I do not care for _the look of them,"_ he snapped. "I care that they will be in my _house,_ for God's sake. I care that my every step will now be haunted by some... block-headed, glowering _ogre,_ lumbering along after me... I can barely endure it."

He snatched up the file, annoyed, and flipped it open.

He read it while pacing the office, muttering as he went.

"For God's sake. _Proficient in mixed martial arts._ So I will have intruders being roundhouse-kicked through my bedroom window, shall I? This is ludicrous." A few pages leafed by. "Dear lord. _Eight years' experience of nightclub bouncing._ Well, if I ever lose my mind and decide to turn the library into a discotheque, Anthea, we'll be in luck." More pages flashed by. "This one hasn't a criminal record listed. I wonder why. For heaven's sake. I'm surprised the agency doesn't list how many teeth they've still got."

Towards the back of the file, he started to go quiet - reading with reluctance those candidates whose professional skills it was harder to find some fault with. He sat down at his desk to do so, scowling. His mutterings became merely unimpressed huffs, tuts, and the occasional scoffed, "... ridiculous. _Utterly_ ridiculous."

The final candidate, he read without a sound.

He then shut the file, pushed it away from him, and said,

"It matters very little. Brainless grunts, all of them." He glared up at Anthea, biting the side of his tongue. "And I'm to make a blind decision based on paper alone, am I? Or do I have to go through the misery of meeting all these shuffling hoodlums?"

 

*

 

The muscles under Anthea's jaw worked just a little to contain her expression. No nasty words for Lestrade, hm? She still had the touch, then.

She gave him an even look, expression calm. "No, sir. To both. When you choose a candidate," when, not if, a deliberate choice of words, "a meeting will be set up." She paused for a half a second, gauging her employer's temper.

"In anticipation, sir, there's a meeting arranged for 7pm tomorrow, should you wish to attend. Though all employees of the agency were put into our pool of candidates, only one employee so far has been offered the contract: Gregory Lestrade."

She reached out and tapped the manila folder with one perfectly manicured nail. "We received confirmation that he is amenable to the meeting, and all parties are aware that a meeting does not ensure that he is awarded the contract. The decision is yours, sir."

There. That should placate him a little bit; a number of polysyllabic words, a hint that a guard attached to him should consider the situation an honor, not a burden, and a reminder that he did hold most of the power in this situation.

"Before you decline, sir," she said smoothly, pulling out her phone and opening up a photo, "I really think you should see this." She laid it on top of the folder without another word.

Her secret weapon: a photo of Lestrade in full tactical combat gear, looking fierce, competent, and devastatingly handsome. Passion clearly burned in his eyes, his athleticism apparent in every line of motion in his body.

Quite Mycroft's type, if she were any judge.

 

*

 

 _The decision is yours, sir._ Mycroft tutted, maintaining his steely silence. This decision was decidedly not his - there was barely even a decision to be made. He was to have a ruffian installed in his home against his will, and whether he met the man in advance or not would make little difference. The candidate named Lestrade seemed to be the least intolerable, out of a veritable pageant of men Mycroft would no sooner associate with than eat every last piece of his desk.

He watched, annoyed, as Anthea extracted her phone to provide some new information. He wondered if it would be something else about Kovácic - his murder - something that suggested any of this was necessary in the slightest.

And then she laid down the photograph - and Mycroft looked at it.

He looked at it for quite some time.

At last he resumed his expression of annoyance, turned his gaze away, and folded his arms.

"Well," he said, "if I'm to be forced into an arrangement whether I wish it or not... I suppose the Lestrade fellow's CV has no immediately apparent problems."

He bit the inside of his cheek.

"I'll meet him and make a decision. If I must. Keep the final four as back-up." He avoided her eyes. "I remain appalled by this entire fiasco."

 

*

 

Anthea bit the tip of her tongue, quite hard. "Your reservations have been duly noted, sir," she said, letting the _and ignored_ end of the phrase go unsaid. She managed to keep the wry, amused expression off her face. It was unspeakably funny to watch Mr. Holmes pout (yes, pout, for there was no other word for it) like a child being told he had to tidy his room.

"A car will bring you to the meeting tomorrow evening," she said smoothly, moving forward to retrieve her mobile. "You'll depart from here, of course, sir." She picked up the folder as well and glanced at her phone. "Ah. Demirjian has the Likowitz files prepared." She gave the tiniest of eyerolls to signal _'_ _finally'._  "Shall I retrieve those for you, sir?"

 

*

 

"Mm. Yes, I think you should." Mycroft supposed there was still work to do, no matter how difficult his superiors were determined to make his job. He would put the matter from his head until tomorrow evening.

As much as he could, anyway.

The sight of leather combat boots, athletic shoulders glorified by a snug black tank top and eminently touchable silver-grey hair would be nearly as hard to forget as his annoyance.

"Might I trouble you for coffee?" he said, opening his laptop with a frown. "I'm now in need of it."

 


	3. Opportunity

Greg arrived at the office perhaps half an hour early to give himself time to figure out how to present himself. He had gone straight home after his meeting with Mrs. Lehrmann and spent most of the day snoring face down in bed. Now, however, he was clean, shaved, and looking quite decent in a suit he mostly wore to fancy events.

The last time it had been pulled out was too long ago to think about. He was just grateful it still fit. It was a handsome dark navy color that highlighted (so he was told) the brightness of his hair and the richness of his eyes. Pressed shirt, good tie, shiny shoes; he felt like he was going to an interview.

As he walked along the hallway to Sue’s office, ten minutes to 7pm, he supposed he _was_ going to an interview. A slightly unconventional one, but an interview nonetheless. Would this man---Mycroft Holmes---find him suitable? They would be living together, after all, and if they couldn’t stand each other---

Greg cut his thoughts off with a sharp shake of his head. _For God’s sake, Lestrade, pull yourself together. It’s coffee, not a firing line._

He approached the door and arched a brow. A sticky note had been left on the door. He pulled it down and read it, smiling a little.

_Coffee has been brewed. Will be nearby if you need backup._

_Good luck, Lestrade._

He crumpled the note and tucked it into his pocket, stepping inside. Just as the note had said, there was fresh coffee and the appropriate accoutrements. Two chairs and a small table had been set up, the better to accommodate their meeting.

He took a breath and sat down. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

 

*

 

Towards the latter end of the working day, Mycroft had found himself oddly unable to settle. His focus was skipping and catching; his thoughts kept straying to strange things.

The room one door along the corridor from his own - an admittedly underused reading space, with a large bay window and original oak floorboards - was already being cleared to accommodate the new member of staff. The books had been moved into the downstairs library; a bed was being brought from storage.

Mycroft had taken a moment to survey the emptied space this morning - unsettled, uncomfortable, imagining a loutish stranger soon to be sleeping in here. This was his home. He didn't want a stranger forced into it against his will.

Then he'd imagined Lestrade sleeping in here - and experienced again the strange, warm twist that now accompanied every recollection of the photograph.

He'd looked so different from Mycroft's vision of a professional security agent that it had rather taken his breath. The man had looked friendly, easy - oddly honest - that slight hint of a grin. Mycroft still didn't know what to think. And the agency had presented Lestrade as their firm recommendation, ready to sign a contract - chosen, Mycroft assumed, with some thought to the temperament required of a live-in bodyguard.

And now they were to meet.

Mycroft found himself distressingly nervous as the car made its way to the offices of the security company, not long before seven. He hadn't the faintest clue of what he would ask Lestrade. He hadn't any idea how to determine if the man would make a fitting bodyguard or an unbearable one.

He just hoped Lestrade hadn't come in tactical combat gear - or it would be completely impossible to concentrate at all.

At reception, Mycroft was directed to the correct floor and office. He found his nerves only rising with him in the lift. Anthea was waiting in the car - and no doubt she would ask his opinion when he returned. It didn't ease his tension at all. He fiddled with his cufflinks as he waited for the correct floor to light up, wondering why he had the curious sensation that something was about to change forever.

As he approached the office, presuming it was the one with an open door, Mycroft walked slowly to try steadying his pulse. His stride announced his approach.

He reached the door, readying himself for whatever he might find inside.

 

*

 

Greg’s head whipped up as he heard footsteps approaching. It had to be Mycroft---rather, Mr. Holmes.  There was no one else it _could_ be, at this hour. Oh, God. Should he remain seated? Should he stand? What kind of impression would he give, doing one or the other? Should he have poured coffee for them both? No, what if he did it wrong? Left room for milk and sugar and the man just had it black? It would be unbearably awkward.

He found, rather unexpectedly, that his heart rate had suddenly picked up and his mouth had gone dry. _Nervous, Lestrade? Really?_ _It’s an interview, not a date. Chill._

He rolled his eyes at himself and stood. Best to meet the man on equal footing, decided. He fixed a pleasant, affable smile on his face (unforced, to his surprise, it seemed there was some excitement mixed in with his nervousness) and waited. He was a seasoned security professional, dammit; whatever this man threw at him, he could handle.

 

*

 

_Oh._

_Oh, I..._

Mycroft looked into the office, and found standing there not a thug, not a shaven-headed lout - but a modern Adonis in a pristinely appropriate suit, with an easy smile, coffee ready to pour, back straight and head high.

As he met Lestrade's eyes for the first time, not a thing crossed Mycroft's face.

Behind it, his heart was detonating in clouds of flame and ash.

 _Sweet Christ._ The man was - ... _unfathomably_ well-formed - shockingly, desperately attractive. Mycroft had looked at him photographed in combat gear and quite wanted to die. He now looked at him standing here in formalwear, turned out for this initial contact with the care and attention one would give to an important interview, and Mycroft realised he wanted in fact to live forever - just to keep staring at this man.

He didn't seem in the least bit nervous. _Here ready, calm. Heard my footsteps. Of course - security professional - vigilant. Attention to detail. Appreciation for what is important, for propriety, for his appearance. Oh, God._

Mycroft suddenly wasn't sure if he would make it through this meeting alive.

_No. No, for heaven's sake. Get a hold of yourself at once. Just because he's visually rather - ... affecting, doesn’t mean the man is a decent person. He could be a cad of the highest order. And he will be living under your roof. Do not crumble for a pair of pretty eyes. Retain some sense._

Mycroft reached impassively for Greg Lestrade's hand, offering a grip that was formal and functional and perfectly steady.

As he did, he realised they were brown eyes - big and dark - and they were utterly beautiful.

_Lord have mercy on my writhing homosexual soul._

"Lestrade?" he said - guarded and clipped, even as he inwardly shrieked at himself for asking such a devastatingly stupid initial question. Who else would the man be? "I am Mycroft Holmes."

 

*

 

Bloody buggering fuck. Fuck and damn. Shit. Of course the man was the picture of elegance and grace. Tall, lean, the utter picture of poise. Every movement screamed ‘control’ and ‘self-assurance’ and ‘superior’. The way he held himself, the way he moved, even that ever-so-slightly haughty (and definitely aloof) expression; it all said “don’t touch”. Said “I’m better than you and I know it”.

Posh, in a word.

And _fuck_ if Greg didn’t have a _serious_ weak spot for posh. Especially in _three-piece suits!_ Christ, the man was put together impeccably, and he felt suddenly underdressed.

A litany of curse words, French, English, and a couple more in assorted languages, cycled through his mind. Not a speck of it showed on his face. He retained the easy smile and took the proffered hand in his. The immediate comparisons--smooth to his callused, long-fingered and delicate to his blunt and sturdy---had his mind reeling again.

_Of course his hands are bloody perfect. Pianist’s hands. I wonder if he plays the piano? Shit, he asked a question. What did he ask? Name! Name! Right! What is my name? Come on, we know this one! We’ve had the same one for decades!_

His smile cracked into a grin as he shook Mycroft’s hand, grip firm and honest. “I am,” he said, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Greg Lestrade, at your service, Mr. Holmes.”

The contact was dropped after the socially-appropriate amount of time, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to step back. His eyes flicked over the man before him before coming back to rest on his face.

Pale, creamy skin. Gorgeous eyes, storm-colored eyes. Hair that gleamed the prettiest shade of auburn under the office lights. That _nose_. His once-dry mouth was flooded with saliva and he was certain his heart rate had picked up again. At this rate, he was going to have a cardiac event, right here in Sue’s office.

_Oh, but what a way to go..._

Greg was dead. He had been shot and was in the hospital and was moving towards the light. That was the only possible explanation for the fact that the man he was (Dear God please) going to be living with for six months being so jaw-droppingly _gorgeous_.

_For fuck’s sake, Lestrade, get it together! You are a professional; get your brain out of your cock and back in your head where it belongs! Now is not the time to be ogling a client!_

He swallowed a little, opened his mouth, and said, “Coffee?”

_You berk._

 

*

 

Mycroft was already envisioning the very large glass of wine he would have to drink upon getting home. Coffee would have to do for now - even if the last thing he needed into his system was an injection of additional energy. He already felt on the verge of shaking. It had been a good decade since he'd had a powerful, physical reaction to another person - and never quite on this scale.

"Please," he said, and by some miracle managed to take a seat without collapsing into the thing like a dizzy giraffe. He felt suddenly very tall, very overdressed and fussy. He crossed one leg over the other in an effort to project some air of composure, gating his fingers on one knee. Lestrade was quite clearly a consummate professional, whom Mycroft had no wish to embarrass with giddy or breathless behaviour. "Black, if you would. No sugar."

He did his best to put out of his mind that this man - this polite, friendly, well-dressed and deliciously confident man - was the same one he'd seen pictured in black combat gear, with a CV that suggested he could kill someone as easily as most people could tie their shoes.

 

*

 

“Right. Can do,” he said, nodding and turning to get the coffee ready. Greg’s breath left him, slowly. He was proud of that, because what his breath _wanted_  to do was leave him all at once, and possibly never return, the traitor.

Christ. Fucking Christ. What was he, fourteen? He stared hard at the cups as he poured the coffee: black for Mycroft, a touch of sugar and a healthy amount of milk for himself. He focused on the small ritual of it, grounded himself in the aroma, and shifted his weight a little to feel the comforting presence of his firearm in the small of his back.

It had been years since Greg had been without a weapon of some kind on his person, and even for an innocuous meeting such as this, that wasn’t about to change.

Feeling much better, he turned with an easy smile and walked back over, cups in his hand. He set Mycroft’s down in front of him, on the table, avoiding that piercing stare -- _those hands, on those legs-- no, Lestrade, pull yourself together, cold shower, stop that_ \-- and sat down in the opposite chair, clutching his own coffee a touch desperately.

“I’m gonna get spoiled by this, if I’m not careful,” he said, smiling wryly. “Mrs. Lehrmann has really good taste in coffee. Much better than the tar in the breakroom.” _And at my flat_ , he thought. But the man across from him didn’t need to know that.

 

*

 

Mycroft accepted his coffee with a quiet murmur of, "Thank you," doing his utmost to let the calm he was projecting settle deeper than his skin. Even spotting that Lestrade was armed had sent his pulse jolting. He'd spent his life surrounded by people who were armed, and never once given much thought to it. Suddenly it was the sole occupation of his thoughts.

As Lestrade eased them effortlessly into casual conversation, Mycroft realised with equal measures of despair and delight that he was looking at his new bodyguard.

He didn't precisely smile - too unsettled for that - but he couldn't keep a faint light from his eyes.

"I imagine coffee is a rather vital part of your trade," he said, regarding Greg with care. "Security work... a demanding daily routine, no doubt."

He tried to imagine it - the mornings, from now on - this man in his kitchen, making coffee. Lestrade looked like the sort of person who went jogging before breakfast. Sit-ups and crunches at the side of the bed; five-a-side-football.

 

*

 

Routine. Greg could talk about routine. He was an adult, he was more than capable of small talk.

He took a sip of his coffee to try and give his poor brain another second to remember how to do the thing with the words and the coherent sentences.

“Can be, yeah,” he agreed easily, settling back a little into the chair. “All depends on the job, of course; sometimes the situation is a bit more demanding than others.” He smiled, eyes crinkling with it. “Tell you what, though; nothing like sprinting away from being shot at when you’re running on two hours of sleep and four pots of coffee to make you really _appreciate_ a Sunday lie-in.”

It wasn’t as if that happened all that often, really, but it didn’t need to, to stick in the memory. He watched Mycroft (Mr. Holmes, he reminded himself fiercely) over the edge of his coffee cup. The other man seemed… well, not _tense_ , exactly, but certainly guarded.

He didn’t seem to loathe Greg already, at least, which Greg would take. He hoped this was going well. It _felt_ like it was going well, but his feelings were notoriously unreliable.

“I don’t really do lie-ins all that often,” he continued easily. “Too light of a sleeper for that. Even when I’m not on a job. Easier to keep to a schedule when it’s habit, right? But I do indulge on occasion.” Another mouthful of coffee so his stupid mouth would have something to do besides continuing to babble.

 

*

 

He talked so easily, Mycroft thought. So calmly.

Mycroft was well aware of the effect his presence often had. Lestrade simply seemed to be immune to it. He supposed the man had encountered all manner of unsettling people in his time - all the same, it was startling to witness. Mycroft had fully expected his life was about to involve the constant presence of a grunting ignoramus who could barely string two words together - and here he was, listening to someone quite honestly and openly share his thoughts, as well-spoken and amiable as any other professional person.

As he listened, Mycroft began to realise this was a curious situation indeed.

He'd entered this process considering himself to have the privilege of a prospective employer - quite entitled to reject as many surly bald men as he liked, and insist the agency provide a panel of new ones for him to also reject - and to repeat that process ad infinitem, until his superiors finally forced him to pick the least unbearable.

He now understood this rather worked two ways.

He had every right to reject Lestrade's employment; Lestrade had every right to reject him, too. This suddenly wasn't a case of him scrutinising the man, and saying yes or no. He had a significant interest in presenting himself as a valuable opportunity to Lestrade.

He gave a small smile, drawing himself a steadying breath.

"I'm afraid my life includes disappointingly few incidents of running away whilst under gunfire." _These days, at least._ "Rather few Sunday lie-ins, too... through habit rather than opportunity. I tend to rise early to work. The first hours of the day are usually my most productive."

He paused, realising with a glance that one of his cufflinks had rotated. He adjusted it with apparently idle care.

"My schedule is - occasionally erratic. It bends to accommodate what is required of me at the time. Though by nature, I do incline to routine..." He gave Greg a slightly wry look. "My advancing years allow me to insist upon a little more stability than I had as a younger man."

 

*

 

Greg found himself nodding a little as Mr. Holmes spoke. Few incidents of running away under gunfire was good; that meant fewer incidents of running away under gunfire for _him_ , as well, and frankly he couldn’t complain about that. It sort of lost its thrill after the sixth or seventh time.

Early riser. He could work with that. He’d had to accommodate all sorts of schedules in the past. A little bit (or a lot) of unpredictability was nothing he couldn’t handle.

His eyes caught on the motion of the cufflink being fixed. He wished he could attribute it to instinct, being drawn to motion, but that would have been a bald-faced lie. It was those _hands_ that had caught his attention, and then the cufflink---

Thank God his mouth could work on autopilot, because his brain was short-circuiting every other second, apparently. He drew his eyes back up. Any snapping of attention would have indicated guilt, or fear, and he _wasn’t_ guilty and he _wasn’t_ scared, ta.

“Stability? What’s that?” he joked, smiling and wrinkling his nose a little. He ran a hand through his hair idly. He already looked half-dressed next to the immaculate Mycroft Holmes, there was little harm in ruffling his hair.

“D’you mostly find yourself working from home in the early hours? Or at Whitehall?” Greg asked, both because he was curious and because it would affect him, too. “I know sometimes there’s things that can only be done at the office, but working from home means you don’t have noisy gits breaking your concentration every five minutes.” He bit his lip, trying not to grin and not really succeeding. “Assuming there _are_ noisy gits at Whitehall. I s’pose it’s possible that anyone noisy gets deported to Siberia or something.”

 

*

 

 _Christ almighty, the hair ruffling._ Mycroft wondered briefly what the man looked like first thing in the morning.

He crushed the thought back down to the very depths of his heart, picked up his coffee to cover the pause, and took a sip. It was terribly hard not to smile, hearing the jocular speculation about Whitehall. Lestrade's irreverent sense of humour was delightfully refreshing. Mycroft spent his life around very serious people, and in their company he became very serious himself. It wasn't good for him.

"I work at home in the early hours," he said, glancing at Lestrade over his coffee. "I tend to have meetings scheduled only after nine, so I make myself available at Whitehall by then. My position is such that most people are expected to come to me. In ordinary circumstances I leave the building by six. Many of my responsibilities can be handled remotely, so I attend to those at home in the evenings."

He paused, taking another sip of coffee.

"If you were to take up the position," he added, not meeting Lestrade's eyes, "then my working hours inside Whitehall would provide you with the opportunity to take leave. The security there would cover me. In some instances, if I were working outside the office, you might be expected to accompany me... but those times would be scheduled in advance."

 

*

 

Greg raised a brow just slightly. People were expected to come to him, huh? No wonder Lehrmann hadn’t been told what he did. Interesting. Very interesting.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, Mrs. Lehrmann mentioned that,” he said, brain catching up to the conversation. “You’re covered by security in most places, home and work, she said, but elsewhere,” he smiled and shrugged a little, “I would be it. Which is fine; nothing I’m not used to.” He took a sip of his coffee, thinking.

“If I do take the job, it’d probably be a couple weeks before I’d feel comfortable going very far from you,” he admitted. “But after that, I’d probably…” He trailed off. “Well, usually I would run errands, but I don’t know if I’d need to do that. If I had the time, I’d probably go and see Shannon and Adrienne. My sister’s kids,” he said, by way of explanation. “I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like, with work what it is. I’d still be available if an emergency came up, of course; they know what I do, they’re used to it.”

He exhaled softly, sipping at his coffee. The kids were growing up so _fast_ , both of them shooting up like weeds every time he saw them. He took every opportunity to see them, of course, but there were points where it was months between visits. It was a little disheartening, to tell the truth.

 

*

 

Mycroft tried to ignore the squeezing of his stomach at the thought this man would want to stay close to him for at least two weeks. It was professionally motivated, of course. It would help him to learn Mycroft's routine and the environments in which he moved.

But it was... rather appealing, too.

Mycroft took a moment to reflect how swiftly his opinion on this matter had changed. Yesterday, he'd been raging at the very prospect of some brute dogging his footsteps. Now he was veritably thrilled. _Dear God, I'm unbearable... a handsome face, and a smile or two, and all is lost._

He listened to Lestrade talk with a faint smile. The joys of family life were rather lost on him - children in particular, he had little experience of - but it was strangely heartening to see the man's great attachment to people.

"My home has a number of systems in place already," he said, "but due to recent events, greater diligence has been deemed necessary. In truth, I've received no threats. I've never found myself the target of an attack or attempted attack. You - might find daily life to be rather docile."

He hesitated, unsure if this would be seen as a positive or negative. Did bodyguards prefer when they were needed or unneeded? He couldn't imagine either.

He took a drink of coffee, and added,

"But - if you're amenable to tranquillity, then the position might offer a number of advantages. Your accommodation and living expenses would be covered in their entirety. I understand you'd be paid a salary in addition. When I'm required to travel internationally, it's rarely for long and undertaken in comfort. I - don't imagine I'd make a particularly challenging person to guard."

Placing down his coffee, with a slight raise of his eyebrow, he added,

"My household is restricted to myself and other staff. I haven't a spouse or immediate family. Your - sole duty of care would be to me."

 

*

 

_(ctd.)_

 


	4. Viable Candidate

As Greg listened, he found himself more focused on watching the other man than really paying attention overmuch. For the most part, it was precisely what his superior had described to him: easy and simple. Luxurious, probably, especially compared to some of his past assignments.

The words Mr. Holmes chose, though. Docile. Tranquil.  It made the position sound even better than Lehrmann had described. The man had a way with words, that was for certain. Greg found himself wondering what exactly it was Mycroft _did_ all day. Something involving talking, probably. A diplomat of some sort? He was certainly persuasive enough for that, and eloquent.

He dismissed the thought. Greg knew diplomats, and even if Holmes’s job involved diplomacy at times, he wasn’t a diplomat. Not oily enough.

His ears nudged his brain as new information filtered in. _I - don't imagine I'd be a particularly challenging person to guard._  Good.

 _Your - sole duty of care would be to me._ Also good. Great.

His brain screeched to a halt and rewound the past several seconds. Wait, _what_? Had he missed something? No. No, wait. It was just a weird way of saying ‘Just me you have to look out for’. Okay. Okay. Shutting down the panic.

Greg covered it with a nod and an easy smile. “ ‘Boring is always best’ is my motto these days,” he said, saluting a little with his coffee. “I used to be a bit of an adrenaline junky,” _among other things,_ his memories hissed nastily, “but those days are pretty far behind me. Simple is good. Honestly, my coworkers might disagree, but I think if I or my client is getting shot at, I’ve done something wrong. Part of my job is to be alert to potential threats, you see, not just throw myself in front of you and beat people up. If someone gets the chance to pull out a gun or get close enough to hurt, I’ve failed.” His expression turned to steel. “And I hate failing.”

 

*

 

Mycroft wondered on what previous occasion Greg Lestrade had so grievously failed. That expression struck him as a look of experience. It was strange, too, that a man once driven to seek thrills now worked in a position that required patience and responsibility. Something had changed at some point in Lestrade's life; something had caused a fairly significant reevaluation.

Not a problem, of course. The man's CV had no worrying gaps, no suggestions that anything of concern lurked beneath. A security agency would have performed comprehensive background checks. People changed for all manner of reasons.

With a last drink, Mycroft placed his empty coffee cup with care upon the table.

"Is there anything you wish to ask me in regards to the position?" he said. "Or to my circumstances?"

 

*

 

Greg rolled the coffee cup between his hands, quelling the first question that popped up. _Are you lonely?_ That was entirely inappropriate, and entirely none of his business.

He took a moment to think about it carefully, draining the last dregs and mimicking the motion of Mr. Holmes, setting the cup down.

Chewing for a moment on his lip, he said, “I'd imagine you're not---too pleased about having someone invade your life,” he said, a little haltingly. “Is there anything I can - could - do? To make it easier? Stay out of the way, like?” He knew by now that if Mr. Holmes would have him, he was taking the job.

Greg wanted to make sure that the other man was as at ease as possible, wanted to make the best of a bad situation. It was the best he could do, and Gregory Lestrade always did his best.

 

*

 

 _Has my reluctance been communicated to him somehow?_ Perhaps the agency had been warned that Mycroft would be a difficult client to find a match for. He did not smile, though he rather wanted to.

"If you were with me when I'm acting in a professional capacity, I imagine the traditional bodyguard approach of lurking sullenly in a corner would do nicely." His eyes glittered as he spoke, finding himself uncommonly called to playfulness. "Outside of working hours, I'd likely be in my private office or in bed. You'd be under no obligation to stand watchful guard over me in either. Being present in the house, in case I'm set upon by masked ruffians, would suffice."

He raised an eyebrow, unaware that a smile was creeping through past his notice.

"You're correct in that I wouldn't have taken a bodyguard by my own volition. I'm rather set in my ways, and I believe this decision is an over-reaction. I will personally dance naked through Whitehall if an actual attempt is made on my life. But if my superiors are willing to invest a significant amount of the nation's budget in boring a security agent to tears each day, in the name of ensuring my safety, then so be it."

 

*

 

Greg bit back a smile as best he could, but when Mycroft’s smile leaked out, so too did his own.

“Sullen, huh? Afraid I'm not too good at sullen,” he said, eyes twinkling with amusement. “‘Fraid stoic is the best I've got. And, sorry to disappoint, but most ruffians don't wear masks.” He affected a very put-upon expression. “No standards these days, I tell you.”

 _Dance naked through Whitehall, huh?_ Now there was an image he didn't need to be dwelling on. He chuckled a little. “I'm sure I'd find something to entertain me, Mr. Holmes. I'm good at occupying myself.”

Greg folded his arms loosely, rested them on his knees, and leaned forward. “Same question for you, then. Anything you wanna know about what my job would mean for you? My, ah, ‘circumstances’?” He asked, smiling as he repeated the word.

 

*

 

Dear lord, the man's spark of mischief was delightful. Mycroft was more and more fond of him by the minute. He seemed utterly unfazed by power, as grounded as an oak tree and honest as a looking glass. His presence brought Mycroft a strange sense of both peace and invigoration.

The only possible problem he could foresee would be keeping Anthea's claws out of him - which, Mycroft realised, with a mild flicker of concern, might be worth keeping an eye on - bearing in mind that the woman was carrying a photograph of him in combat gear around on her phone.

Most of the man's circumstances, Mycroft could acquire with some discreet overnight research. The specifics of the job could likely be worked out as they went. He supposed he couldn't let the man go without testing him a little, though.

Holding Lestrade's gaze, he lifted his chin.

"If I had to sever your contract prematurely," he asked, "what would be the most likely reason for it?"

He knew it was a nightmarish question. It was, in essence, _tell me the very worst I can expect of you._ Anthea, in her interview, had told him it would be for disobeying an unreasonable order. He'd hired her that very day.

He watched Lestrade closely for an answer, noting every reaction that passed his face.

 

*

 

Greg’s expression tightened. Once upon a time, the answer would have been _because I was stoned out of my mind on something._  But those days were behind him, solidly behind him.

His lips thinned and he rubbed his hands together slowly. “That’s… tough,” he said carefully. “I guess I would have to say --- disobeying a direct order, Mr. Holmes. If, for instance, you told me to kill or harm someone who wasn’t a threat. Or if you asked me to do something that put my family in danger.” He met Mycroft’s gaze. “Or if you asked me to leave you behind, save myself.”

In an attempt to lighten the mood, he added, “Or, I s’pose, depending on how close our rooms are, if you can’t stand me snoring. Been told I can be a dreadful snorer, sometimes.” Only when he was sick, truly, or had injured something in his chest or face. Greg hoped Mycroft would accept the joke.

 

*

 

Mycroft wondered what the first answer was - the one that had been carefully filed away.

The second answer was pleasing enough, and the third rather made him smile. He lowered his gaze a moment, letting the curve ease from the edges of his mouth.

 _"If_ you were to be offered the contract," he said, with care, "you'd be assigned the room next to mine. My superiors have insisted on it. Disappointing that I would have such poor sleep as your employer, though... and that you would so unreasonably refuse to murder for me on demand. I doubt your commitment to the role, Mr Lestrade."

The gleam in his eye was entirely playful.

 

*

 

Greg’s eyes lit up. So there _was_ a sense of humor hidden under that suit. Excellent. He wanted to bring it out more.

He grinned. “Well, I could always get one of those nose thingies. S’posed to make you stop snoring? My brother-in-law uses them. Melody says they work, but I’m inclined to think she just says that to make him feel better.” He leaned back, arms folded loosely against his chest. He was still grinning, eyes bright with it. “On demand murder, Mr. Holmes? Please. What do you take me for, some kind of common assassin?” The grin settled into something of a smirk, eyes going hooded. “You’d have to say please.” There was a rough, teasing edge to his voice.

 

*

 

"You're _not_ an assassin, you say?" Mycroft remarked, as if terribly disappointed, though his eyes still danced with a bright grey mischief. "It seems there's been an error in communication somewhere. How upsetting. And to think, I was getting rather excited at the prospect of a live-in assassin... I had quite a list for you to work through. What a dreadful faux pas."

 

*

 

Greg couldn’t help the grin. “Weeeeell,” he said, “I’m not saying I couldn’t be persuaded to do a _little_ bit of assassinating in my downtime. On the side, as it were.” He examined his nails in a display of affected casualness. “It’d have to be worth my time, though. Since it’s not in the contract. I’m paid to keep you safe---” He glanced up, smirking. “---and no, assassinating irritating people doesn’t fall under ‘keeping you safe’. Even if they’re _really_ annoying.”

 

*

 

 _Roguish man._ Mycroft liked people who weren't intimidated by him. Most were - or if unafraid, they were antagonistic. Power games became so dull after decades of playing them. This was something else. Lestrade didn't seem to be like other men; he was cut from some other cloth.

Rearranging one leg across the other, with a slight lift of his eyebrow, Mycroft noted,

"I am, of course, not paying you anything yet... nor has any contract been signed."

He passed his tongue quietly beneath his teeth; he decided he wanted to see the man's hand. He glanced up into Lestrade's eyes.

"Would you accept it," he asked, "if it were offered?"

 

*

 

Greg smirked a little and raised his eyebrows, just a little. “An assassination request, or the contract?” His expression settled into something more calm and at ease. “I’d accept the contract, yeah. This,” he gestured between the pair of them, “seems to be working just fine. I’m confident I can keep you safe, and I don’t think either one of us is going to want to murder the other any time soon, even with living together.”

He smiled. “I think this could be really good for both of us, Mr. Holmes, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

 

*

 

_Mm. Excellent._

Mycroft's measured smile gave nothing away. He listened to Greg with interest, enjoying the honesty - enjoying the candid nature of it - enjoying how much the man seemed to have opened to him, in such short a span of time. He knew very well there were hidden depths of some nature or other. In time, no doubt, they would come to light.

But on the grand scheme of things, he couldn't have hoped for a better match than Lestrade.

He hadn't imagined anyone even vaguely like him would exist. He could see Lestrade fitting magnificently into the household - hopefully not taking any kind of sexual interest in Anthea, which would be very difficult to witness - but he would get on with the other staff, and settle quickly, and provide Mycroft with a rather grounding presence in his day-to-day life. What more could be wanted?

As Greg finished speaking, Mycroft straightened his back with a smile. He took a moment to formulate his response.

"Thank you for your thoughts," he said. "I'll be sure to take them into account. I have a number of other candidates to meet, and imagine I'll make a decision shortly afterwards... unless there's anything you wished to add, I think this discussion might be drawing to an end."

 

*

 

Greg fought incredibly hard not to arch a brow at the blatant power play. A number of other candidates, huh? He found that hard to believe. Most everyone else qualified to do this kind of security wasn’t suited to it, and certainly wouldn’t be suited to the man across from him. There was a _reason_ Sue Lehrmann had recommended him, after all.

Make a decision shortly afterwards, indeed. He imagined all the meetings would be something like this: Mycroft would walk in, take one look at the candidate, and summarily dismiss them. Possibly even with a word, if he was feeling generous.

Rather than let the (possibly uncharitable, if not untrue) thoughts show on his face, Greg just smiled and sat forward. “Nah, I think we’ve about covered it.” He stood up and offered his hand. “Thank you for your time and consideration, Mr. Holmes. I look forward to hearing from you.” No ‘ _one way or the other_ ’ tacked on, to show the man that he was confident he would be offered the contract.

 

*

 

The justified confidence was a delight; Mycroft was unsurprised to find Greg difficult to unsettle. The man clearly had more self-awareness and self-worth than that. It was best to keep his cards close to his chest, all the same. This process still had to be formally completed before anyone could make themselves cosy.

Mycroft rose to his feet; his slight height advantage granted him no physical superiority over Lestrade, and he knew it. The body beneath the navy suit might be shorter than his, but it was far more toned and developed - and as they met hands, Mycroft was aware of the firmness of the grip. He looked into Lestrade's eyes.

"A pleasure," he said, coolly. "I appreciate your time. Are you now leaving, or will your employer wish to speak to you?"

 

*

 

“Oh, I’m sure if she wants to talk to me, she’ll ambush me on my way out,” Greg said cheerfully, giving the other man’s hand a shake before letting go and stepping back. “If you hear a muffled yelp, keep walking; it’s just me getting hit by a tranq dart. Nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

The cool mask and polite voice did absolutely nothing to intimidate him; it was actually rather endearing at this point. Greg knew the other man wasn’t just sharp edges and aloof politeness; he had _seen_ the smiles, _heard_ the sense of humor. This persona was clearly just a mask, and he wouldn’t be forgetting what lay beneath it.

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes glinted. He made no comment, not trusting himself to indulge in this playful back-and-forth any longer - not until he had the man's signature in ink upon a contract. He let go of Greg's hand, gave a clean and professional nod, and with perfect composure let himself from the room. He closed the door neatly, made his way along the corridor, and pressed the button for the lift.

Only as he found himself alone, descending towards the ground floor, did Mycroft permit himself a full smile. He gripped his hands together tightly, trying not to think.

Every hint of the expression was carefully masked by the time he reached the car.

His driver stepped out to get the door for him. Mycroft ducked inside, and the door shut behind him. As the car set off, he finally turned to his assistant sitting beside him.

"Something of a rogue," he remarked, his tone entirely neutral. "Familiar. Sincere, though. Grounded and amiable. All things considered... a viable candidate."

 

*

 

Anthea’s eyes flicked up from her mobile. Her small, professional smirk was present in full force. A less-restrained woman might have fist-pumped. ‘A viable candidate’ from Mycroft Holmes was a ‘stellar, hire immediately’ from anyone else.

And that carefully neutral tone? Who did he think he was fooling? She had been with him for years, and had picked up on some of his deductive ability. He was trying to hide how pleased he was. Luckily for him, Anthea was one of the very few who would recognize that fact.

“Very good, sir,” she said easily.

Feeling just a bit cheeky, she smirked a little wider and asked, “No combat gear for this meeting, sir?”

 

*

 

_You utter minx. Lay a hand on Lestrade, and I shall order him to assassinate you at once. He and I have... an understanding._

"No - very suitably attired. Well-kept. He conducts himself excellently." Mycroft fought a smile with all his might, checking his pocket watch purely as some occupation for his treacherous face. He couldn’t forget Lestrade’s initial, upright conduct - his careful conversation as he got the measure of Mycroft - then the almost flirtatious mischief into which he settled. _Perhaps he's that way with everyone. Not that it matters. He's likely heterosexual, likely to be attached - such a man would never stay single long - and likely soon to become an employee of mine. He will be delightful to have around, at least. And that's all._

"I remain unconvinced of his necessity," Mycroft said, slipping his pocket watch away. "I'm not going to be attacked. I'm certainly not going to be assassinated. But Lestrade is inoffensive enough, and seems highly-qualified for this unnecessary job - I suspect other interviews might only be a waste of our time."

He paused, a flicker of playful wickedness crossing the back of his heart.

"Do wait a week to inform the agency, though. I don’t wish my superiors to receive any false impression of enthusiasm from me. Request details of other candidates, and tell the agency that Lestrade is being kept as a possibility for now."

 

*

 

Anthea made a small noise, smirk never leaving her face. “Certainly, sir. I’ll have another folder prepared for you tomorrow.” Not that the folder would ever see Mycroft’s desk; Lestrade had been the perfect choice, just as she had guessed.

“Will you be conducting the background search yourself, sir?” she asked, looking down at her mobile. A tactful way to ask ‘will you be doing the snooping or shall I?’

Oh, she was looking forward to this. Having such a handsome, charming man around her employer’s home would be delightful. Anthea always enjoyed a good flirt, especially when it was for a purpose. Say, stoking the fires of jealousy in a certain tall government official. She was no stranger to games of the heart, and knew that a little competition would go a long way.

She’d have to be careful, though. It would be a balancing act, no doubt.

She relished the challenge. The anticipation of it showed in a fierce little smirk and a momentary tightening of her grasp on her mobile.

 

*

 

Mycroft considered it for a moment, pressing his teeth gently into the side of his tongue. In truth, he had other tasks he needed to attend to - important tasks.

Telling himself it would count as his allotted rest and relaxation for the evening, he said,

"I shall deal with it. I'd rather you concentrate on the Likowitz matter - that's far more pressing, as they're expecting an answer by the end of the week. Lestrade will also be a colleague of yours. If the man has any skeletons, it wouldn't be fair for you to be privy to them. Some measure of confidentiality should be adhered to."

Coolly extracting his phone from inside his jacket, Mycroft added,

"Kindly forward me everything you have from the agency." _Including photographs._ "Then you may do with the evening as you wish. I'll likely spend it in my office. If you could keep interruptions to a minimum, Anthea, I'd appreciate it."

 


	5. Jinx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kudos and comments so far, guys. We're ridiculously glad you're enjoying this. <3 Much love... Moth/Mycroft. x

* * *

 

Greg found himself essentially on leave until further notice. Until he had gotten a response from Mr. Holmes, Sue had said, he would be taking no other assignments and was free to do as he wished.

So he did. He took the opportunity to go see Melody, Roger, and the kids, spend some actual quality time with them. Shannon and Adrienne used him as a jungle gym (typical), demanded stories (even more typical), and showed him their schoolwork and hobbies (less typical, but very appreciated).

He basked in the glow of his family, running about with the kids on the lawn, making dinner with Melody at his side, chatting with Roger over drinks in the evening after Shannon and Adrienne had reluctantly gone to bed.

He had missed this. The quiet times. If he got the contract, he could have more of them. That brought a smile to Greg’s face.

As the week progressed, he began packing up what few belongings he had. The flat had come furnished, and so it would be no great effort to unpack if it turned out he was wrong and he _wasn’t_ going to get the contract. He looked at the four boxes that contained, essentially, his life. Mostly clothes and weapons, a few books. A set of chef’s knives, his reading glasses. Knick-knacks and baubles the twins had gathered for him over the years. A couple photographs of him and Melody, him and the twins, Melody and her family.

It wasn’t much, really. But it was enough.

As the week drew to a close, Greg found himself antsy and pacing. He worked out his aggression and tension at the gym, on punching bags and sparring partners alike. He went through more cigarettes than he cared to admit (Melody had tried to get him to quit, just once. They never spoke of it, as they never spoke of many things.), but felt he was handling it rather well.

So it was only a _little_ embarrassing when his phone went off and he leaped at it. He grabbed it and answered, “Lestrade.” He hadn’t even checked the caller ID in his earnestness.

 

*

 

"Lestrade? Sue Lehrmann calling."

Sue's smile was audible in her voice - a pleased, curling note beneath her usual crisp professionalism. Though Greg couldn't know it, she was sitting at her desk with a cup of tea and a rather generous slice of battenberg, twirling the phone cord around her thumb as she read again the e-mail she'd just received.

"I've had a message regarding the Holmes contract," she said, reaching for her battenberg, and taking a discreetly-sized bite - sullying her lipstick with not a single grain of sugar. "Are you occupied with something currently?"

 

*

 

Greg grinned, and it showed in his voice. “Nope, not at all ma’am. Completely free.” He winced. “I mean available.” Wince. “ _Unoccupied._ ”

Honestly, what the fuck was the matter with him? He pinched his leg hard to try and get himself under control. Excitement was no reason to lose his head, even if the thought of living with Mr. Holmes was _very_ appealing and sent some suspect thoughts floating through said head.

He pushed himself up from where he’d thrown himself across the mattress to grab his phone. “What’s the, uh, message, ma’am?” he asked, clearing his throat awkwardly.

 

*

 

"Rather interesting," Sue said, laying down her battenberg with care, and taking a moment to chew. An audible sip of tea was taken. "You've been asked to another meeting. I'm afraid there are scant details attached - no sign of a solid offer, but no sign of a rejection either. Apparently a car will be sent to collect you now, if you're amenable."

She raised an eyebrow, smiling.

"I assume you're at the very least dressed, at three PM in the afternoon, and not laying around in your underpants. I can request a suitable delay if I'm wrong."

 

*

 

“If I was laying about in my underpants, I’d hardly admit that now, would I, ma’am?” Greg replied, laughing. In fact, he _was_ dressed, if casually. Jeans and a comfortable t-shirt, his preferred ‘lounging’ clothes.

“I’ll be ready,” he assured her, rolling off the bed onto his feet. He paused. “Unless this is going to be a formal meeting, in which case I should probably change into something more appropriate. Is there, ah, anything in the message, ma’am?” He’d hate to ruin his good impression by showing up well under-dressed. On the other hand, Greg was a bit ‘take me as I am or piss off’, so perhaps changing wasn’t necessary.

He did, however, start looking about for a clean pair of socks.

 

*

 

"No indication of dress code, I'm afraid. No indication of much. I'm not even sure of a location. I assume that if they're wishing to see you immediately, they'll be prepared for you to arrive in casual dress. Unless you're covered in animal dung or someone else's blood, I'm sure you'll do."

Sue had herself another small piece of battenberg, listening to the poor man hunt for socks.

"I shall reply with your acceptance," she said. "Do keep me posted. We've heard nothing about the other candidates yet, if it eases your mind. A huge number of rejections, but none of the other possibles have heard anything."

 

*

 

Greg rolled his eyes a little, smiling wryly. He had only shown up to a meeting covered in someone else’s blood _once_. No one seemed to be able to let that go. Especially his “It’s not my mine!” protest.

“Glad to hear it, Sue---I mean, ma’am,” he said, recovering quickly. He leaned against the wall and tugged on his socks, balancing carefully. “I’ll certainly keep you informed.” He grinned and pinned the phone against his ear. “I mean, unless this car is coming to have me spirited away, never to be heard from again. If you never hear from me again, it was a real honor working for you.”

That was the truth, too. It really was an honor to work for her, to know that he had made enough of an impression that she had recommended him for this.

 

*

 

Her fond eye roll was somehow audible.

"Yes, Lestrade. Very good. Best of luck in the meeting, and I trust you'll conduct yourself excellently. Do contact me when you've escaped your bonds and reached British territory once more."

The call ended. Sue Lehrmann finished her battenberg.

And twenty minutes later, a black car of eye-watering make and model eased to a halt outside Greg Lestrade's flat.

The driver was a young woman in a black uniform. The peaked cap looked oddly formal against her open, heart-shaped face. She had large eyes, a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and a freshness about her that kept her age from being pinned down with any precision. She greeted Greg politely at his door, asked if he'd be good enough to follow her, then led him downstairs to the breathtaking car.

She opened the door to the backseat for him, her eyes kept low and her face giving nothing away.

 

*

 

Greg’s nose crinkled a little. “Do I really have to sit in the back?” he asked, scruffing a hand through his hair. The car _oozed_ money, and he was doing his best not to be intimidated by it. He wasn’t exactly the ‘being chauffeured about’ type, especially not in his current state.

“I mean, if them’s the rules, I guess I can,” he continued, “but I’d feel a lot better in the front.” He glanced sideways at her, looking for a reaction.

_Christ. To think I might have to get used to this._

 

*

 

The moment he spoke to her - before he'd even made many words out of it - the driver blinked at Greg in surprise. The expression made her look almost cartoonish. She stared at him for a moment, bewildered, clearly unused to her passengers addressing her directly.

She then coughed, and said,

"Erm - no, that's fine. You can sit up front if you like." She hesitated. "It's not a - _rule,_ really. They usually just want the posh bit in the back, with all the leg room. But that's cool."

She moved around to get the side door for him, opening it up.

"Oh, um - my - " She had a car magazine, her phone and a large bag of Cool Original Doritos on the passenger seat. "Sorry. Don't look. Hang on."

She stuffed the debris into the glove compartment, shot Greg a nervous grin, and bowed him in.

"Jag XJ. Isn’t she gorgeous? Please don't tell Mr Holmes I'm keeping Doritos in her glovebox. He'll flay me living. You the new bodyguard?"

 

*

 

Greg threw her a grin and sat down easily. He gave a low whistle and ran his hands over the dashboard. “What a beaut,” he said, eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry, the Doritos will be our secret.” He threw her a wink and sat back, buckling his seatbelt.

“I’m---well, I’m the candidate to be the new bodyguard,” he said as they got going. “I think I’m on my way to be told if I am or not.” He smiled conspiratorially and tapped the side of his nose. “Between you and me, I’m pretty sure I am, though. Greg Lestrade, by the way. And you are?”

If Greg was being honest with himself, he was glad she had allowed him to sit up front. Having someone to talk to - especially someone who appreciated cars, he had seen the magazine - would ease his nerves significantly. The thought of sitting in the back, alone with his thoughts, nearly made him shudder.

 

*

 

As they set off, the driver's eyes fixed ahead over the wheel - but her face tightened with the first hint of a smirk. She knew something. She wasn't very good at keeping it. Up close, the freckles took away every scrap of her seriousness - but her handling of the car was faultless. She drove it as if it were an extension of herself, watching for everything even as she talked.

"Don't kid yourself," she said, brightly. "They send me and the jag to fetch the rejected ones, so Mr Holmes can get their hopes up, then watch them cry in person. Gives him energy."

She switched on the radio - vintage rock.

"Lance Corporal Maguire. Jessamine." She watched a taxi driver cut up a white van, and swerved the Jaguar neatly down a side street to avoid the honking and the hold-up. "Unless Mr Holmes and Anthea aren't around, and then it's Jinx. You're going to stop him getting murdered in his bed, are you?"

 

*

 

Greg leaned back, grinning. His eyes moved between the road and Jessamine - Jinx - watching her expression. He liked her already. Reminded him a bit of himself, really. Bit of a rogue, exceptional taste in cars and music. A little scruffy.

“Hopefully,” he said cheerfully. “And anywhere else, if all goes according to plan. Although I have it on the best authority that there’s no real threat to his life, so most I’ll be standing around for decoration.” He wrinkled his nose with a smile. “More’s the pity, since I’m not particularly pretty.”

Greg inhaled as she cut smoothly back onto a main road. “Damn,” he whistled. “Where’d you learn to drive like this?” He was impressed, truly; he had some experience handling powerful cars in dangerous situations, but she was better, and he wasn’t afraid to admit it.

 

*

 

Jinx replied to his question with a casual glance in the rear view mirror.

"Out in Helmand for a couple of years. Medium armored vehicles - Mastiffs and Ridgebacks, mostly. Not often things get that dramatic in London, though..." She paused, wheeling her way cleanly into traffic. "We did hit a deer last month on the way home. About eleven at night. Mr Holmes screamed like a little girl. It was amazing. He didn't even want to take it home and mount it for the fireplace... had to get the dent taken out professionally."

She reached for the glove box, fished out a tin of travel sweets, and offered Greg one.

"Gonna be about an hour by the way. We're heading out to the estate - get comfy."

 

*

 

Greg’s mouth pulled into a tight line as he tried not to snigger at the thought of the elegant man he had met reacting to hitting a deer. In fairness to him, it _was_ a startling occurrence if one wasn’t expecting it. For example, not being able to see it coming because one was in the back.

He took the sweet with a murmured thanks and settled back. “Estate?” he asked, raising a brow. “Christ.” A hand through his hair.

“This all feels like some weird dream,” he admitted,  glancing sideways at her. “I’ve been some weird places in my career, but I’ve never been summoned to an estate in a top-of-the-line car with someone who has professional driving training - don’t argue, I recognize the handling maneuvers - before. Especially not in jeans and a t-shirt.” He huffed. “I have a feeling I’m going to spend a significant amount of my time around Mr. Holmes feeling underdressed. Might as well get used to it, eh?”

Greg shifted position slightly, readjusting for the firearm at the base of his spine. The knife on his calf sat squarely, its weight a familiar comfort. They were his armor, in a way, similar to Mr. Holmes’ suits, he suspected. His armor was a _touch_ more functional, of course. The only way Mr. Holmes could kill anyone with a suit was a heart attack brought on by sheer lust.

Not that that was entirely out of the realm of possibility, mind you.

 

*

 

"You think I ended up a Lance Corporal in Helmand without advance driving training?" Jinx said, amused. "Hardly get to use the really showy tricks, these days. Not that I'm complaining. And yeah, get used to that. Mr Holmes and Anthea are... different people to us. They come from a different world. S'just bred into them."

She reached for a button on the dashboard, letting the windows down a little.

"Don't get me wrong - they're good people. He's a good employer. Tells you straight. There's far worse than Mr Holmes out there. Far, far worse. Just don't expect to see him letting his hair down. He never does, 'specially in front of staff."

 

*

 

Greg hummed a little, tucking the sweet into the side of his cheek as he mulled that over. By all accounts, Mr. Holmes was stoic, aloof, and closed off. Now, first impressions had certainly agreed with that.

But the back-and-forth banter they had engaged in, the nearly flirtatious mischief… that gave lie to the facade. He had seen under the mask, and was beginning to realize how rare that was, exactly. Mycroft Holmes was not a man given to frivolity or humor, or so he wished other people would believe.

Greg wondered why. When people built up a shield like that, there was usually a reason for it. Some hurt they were hiding.

He wondered if he would ever get to find out what that hurt was.

“In the world, but not of the world, huh?” he commented, letting his eyes roam over the scenery. “I’ve had a few clients like that. Mr. Holmes doesn’t seem like a bad sort, for the type. Not the kind to treat you like dirt just because you’re the help.” Greg’s lips curled in distaste for a moment. “Had a few of those. Think they can get away with anything just because they’re paying your wages.”

 

*

 

"Ha. Yeah. Mr Holmes knows plenty of them... he doesn't offer many people lifts, obviously. Sometimes, though. Don't mind when they don't notice me, to be honest - it's easier - happy just to get on with my job. Always better when it's just him in the car."

Jinx gave Greg a sideways look, smiling around her boiled sweet.

"You're good," she decided. "Glad it's you."

She was happy to chat for the rest of the drive - anything and everything, family and friends, past jobs and past employers. Details about Mr Holmes and the household were kept to a minimum, hidden behind the same little smile - almost as if she didn't want to spoil anything.

The drive took them out of the city, into the sort of pleasant and rolling green scenery where every property's price-tag stretched on into infinity.

They turned eventually along a narrow country track. Small birds fluttered in front of the car from one hedgerow to another, as Jinx fished a remote from the top pocket of her jacket. It was required to open the large pair of gates that appeared within the greenery. Another minute up the track, rising slowly with the hillside, and the car emerged through trees into the courtyard of a country home so pretty and picturesque it could be on the front of a glossy magazine. It was both built to impress and lovingly hidden away - beams on the upper stories, ivy winding its way around the windows, sunlight dappling fondly through the trees all around. A classical statue of an athletic male in a helmet stood pride of place in the courtyard. The view across the surrounding parkland swept its way down to woods; the slender ribbon of a distant silver river was just visible, curving its way along the edge of the estate.

Jinx cruised into the courtyard as if nowhere could be more normal in the world.

She pulled the car to a stop, switched off the radio, and flashed Greg a quick glance.

"Alright?" she checked.

Her eyes danced.

 

*

 

“This perimeter is going to be an absolute _bitch_ to secure,” Greg said automatically. After so many years in the security industry, that was his first thought.

His second thought was, _Why the hell does one person need so much_ space _?_

His third was, _Christ._

A hand came up and ruffled his hair. “You weren’t joking, Jinx,” Greg said ruefully, smiling a bit. “They really are of a different world.” He shook his head a little and rolled his shoulders, trying to dislodge the unease. It would be fine. A house was a house, a client was a client. And it wasn’t as if he was _totally_ unfamiliar with wealth and power; he’d been to plenty of estates and opulent hotels in his life.

It was just this was the first time he was possibly going to live in one.

He undid his seatbelt. “Alright,” he said, smiling. “Let’s go see if Mr. Holmes is here to give me a contract or a rejection, eh?” He threw her a small wink; it was pretty clear he knew which one it was going to be.

He got out of the car, not wanting to wait for her to come around and open the door.

 


	6. Signed and Sealed

 

 

Mycroft had been occupied since seven AM - an unusually meeting-heavy day. It had left him tired and drifting somewhere on the very outskirts of a migraine. He'd taken the executive decision that the rest of the day's tasks could be completed at home, and arrived back not long after two.

Not many tasks had come to completion so far.

It was _not_ because Lestrade would be here this afternoon.

That much was beyond question. Mycroft knew that no-one in their right mind could have suggested such a thing, but he took steps nonetheless to reassure himself it was true. This potential migraine was the culprit - or the unusually warm day - or a number of work situations which had the potential to become problematic. He had pre-emptive painkillers for the headache that might start, moved from his office to the conservatory to work, with the French windows wide open to permit a breeze, prioritised his workload for the week, and took comfort in camomile tea. He was still mildly unsettled - but it was not Lestrade. It was perhaps just something in the air.

In truth, Lestrade had barely entered his thoughts this week.

Mycroft had paid only a few minutes' attention each day to the surveillance reports that were sent to him - the photographs - Lestrade entering a local gym in training gear, looking tense, and leaving it much calmer; Lestrade leaving a local corner shop, holding his third new packet of cigarettes that week; Lestrade on long lens, sitting on a patio in the evening sun, drinking beer with his brother-in-law and laughing.

Mycroft hadn't even dwelled for long on the apparent lack of a girlfriend to visit, or any other woman of significance. He'd experienced no relief whatsoever as the week proceeded, and each passing day brought no photos of Lestrade leaving a woman's flat in the morning looking smug. (The possibility, in fact, had barely crossed Mycroft's mind; he merely noted that it seemed to be so. Lestrade was single. Such was the way of the world.)

He read through Lestrade's documents and application a number of times, just to check particular facts his mind had queried. He ensured Lestrade's room was made ready, but did not think of it in any way as Lestrade's room - it was merely _the bodyguard's room,_ and Mycroft had definitely _not_ had a hand in ensuring the decor featured a contemporary, masculine edge to suit its wood-panelled period elegance. He had a discreet word with a number of Lestrade's previous clients, purely to ensure he was making a wise decision - two of them were Diogenes members, who didn't remember one bodyguard from the next; a couple of the others were able to confirm there'd been no problems with Lestrade, whom they'd found highly professional. Everything seemed in order.

And now it was the day.

Another meeting - to see if Lestrade was still interested in the position; and, if so, to discuss the possibility further.

This meeting was to take place at the house. Lestrade could see the environment in which he would be expected to live and work; Mycroft could see the environment with the addition of Lestrade, and decide how he felt about that. The two of them would sit down together, and negotiate a space as professional men - then decide if it was a space they could both occupy.

Mycroft had opted for a workwear palette dominated by mid-grey-blue today. (It didn't matter, of course. He hardly cared whether Lestrade thought it brought out the auburn in his hair or not.) Since arriving home, he'd shed his suit jacket but nothing else, and he'd kept an eye on the house's security system as he attempted to work.

At around four PM, a faint tone throughout the ground floor announced that the gates had been opened.

With a tightening chest, Mycroft closed his laptop. He downed the last of his camomile tea as if it were gin, left the French windows open to permit a breeze, and made his way through the house towards the front door.

He was glad Lestrade would see the place in the sun. (Not that Lestrade's _opinion_ of his home influenced a thing.) He'd checked twice since getting home that Lestrade's room - _the bodyguard's room -_ was suitably ready for viewing. His own was, too. Lestrade probably wouldn't wish to see it, unless they took a tour - in which case he might - and there was nothing about Mycroft's room that would be of interest in any way at all, he was sure, but Mycroft had ensured it was fit for a stranger's eyes nonetheless. And with fresh calla lillies on the dresser.

Anthea was still at the office - there in case he needed files to be scanned and sent, and otherwise acting in his absence.

It meant he and Lestrade would have the house to themselves.

Mycroft opened the front door quite calmly, to find the car just coasting to a halt in the courtyard.

A moment later, the passenger door opened. Mycroft made an immediate mental note to discipline Maguire, that she'd made a guest sit beside her like some chatty Hackney taxi driver, rather than letting Lestrade relax in peace in the back - but then the sight of Lestrade exiting the car, in an infinitely casual pair of jeans and a t-shirt, rather wiped all knowledge of propriety from Mycroft's mind.

He arranged his face into a look of neutral calm, waiting just inside the open door.

He heard Maguire call an excessively familiar goodbye to Lestrade. She audibly turned the radio back on as the car door shut, her damn rock music pulsating against the windows as the Jaguar pulled away across the courtyard. Mycroft would speak to her about first impressions later.

For now, he kept his eyes on the man he was about to invite to join his household - to sleep with a single wall between them, and ensure his safety and protection at all times.

Nothing at all crossed his face as Lestrade approached.

But he couldn't entirely hide the brightness in his eyes.

 

*

 

Greg grinned, eyes squinting in the late afternoon sun as he watched Jinx - Lance Corporal Maguire, rather - pull away. He recognized the bass line of the song she had turned on and hummed it to himself as he crossed the courtyard, pace easy and serene.

The door was open already. He saw Mycroft, and it took every ounce of his professionalism to keep his jaw from touching the ground. He couldn’t keep a certain light from entering his eyes, though; the man looked _spectacular_ , even here at home.

 _If this is his idea of casual, I might as well have showed up in my pants_ , Greg thought to himself. He felt scruffy and a little small, so he did what he always did in that situation: threw on a bright grin and pulled his shoulders up and back in a way that was both natural and _very_ flattering for his body.

“Mr. Holmes,” he greeted cheerfully, offering a hand. “Good to see you again. Beautiful place you have here. You have excellent taste.” Assuming, of course, that he had had a hand in everything - and frankly, Greg couldn’t imagine that he _hadn’t_.

 

*

 

 _God almighty._ The man had somehow become even more shatteringly handsome inside of a week. The easy stride, the grin, the handshake - just slightly firm. It was unbearable. Mycroft was rescued only by a flash of irresistible humour, that the man had the delicious _nerve_ to appraise his architectural taste. It flickered across his face before he could hide it. He visibly flattened the curve of his mouth, his eyes brighter than ever, and shook Greg's hand with staunch composure.

"How kind," he said, amused. "Do come in."

He held the door for Lestrade; Mycroft's reception hall was bright and airy, a solid wood floor with panelling around the multi-level staircase and breathtakingly tasteful cream everywhere else. Small items from Mycroft's travels were arranged discreetly here and there, none in particular screaming attention to itself - the effect was of a sublime little collection, far too modest to be showcased, but far too interesting to be hidden away.

As Greg stepped into the space, Mycroft closed the door quietly behind him.

"I must apologise for my driver," he said, sleek and a little weary. "I do hope she hasn't exhausted you. Her sense of decorum has improved, but still needs some work..."

 

*

 

Greg looked around as he stepped inside, noting all the small items, the decor, and of course, exits, entrances, and hiding spaces.

His gaze snapped to Mycroft, however, when he spoke of Jinx. “Who, Maguire?” he asked, putting his hands in his pockets. “Nah, don’t apologize. She’s great. A good kid, really. I was the one who asked not to be put in the back.” He shrugged a little, a half-smile on his face.

“Never really liked driving alone, and I’m not used to being chauffeured. It was nice to have someone to talk to, honestly. No need to discipline her on my account.” There was a certain tilt to his head that said he’d be checking with her afterwards to make sure she _hadn’t_ gotten in trouble, and that if she _had_ , he and Mr. Holmes would be having words.

Presumptive? Absolutely. And entirely in-character. Greg really _didn’t_ want Jinx to be in trouble for indulging him; it had made the ride here infinitely better, and he was pretty sure he had made a friend. He didn’t take kindly to his friends being in trouble over something that truly wasn’t a big deal.

 

*

 

That intriguing head-tilt. _Are you attempting to warn me, you magnificent bastard?_ Mycroft was almost tempted to discipline Maguire, just to see what happened. It flashed briefly through his head that Lestrade himself someday might require a stern word or two, as all members of staff inevitably did - and what a stirring discussion that would no doubt be.

He held Lestrade's gaze, one eyebrow taking a delicate flicker upwards.

"I trust she's talked within the confines of her employment contract," he said, coolly. "Possibly not a revelation at this stage... but my position requires an infallible level of confidentiality from my staff - and from visitors to the house, too."

 _One of which you are,_ he added, with his eyes.

 

*

 

“I mean, without having read her employment contract, I couldn’t say for certain,” Greg said, shrugging a little. “But I can say we really didn’t talk about you, the house, or the rest of the staff.” His brows arched up, just a little, and he smirked. “Us peasants have better things to talk about, believe it or not.”

He shifted his weight, one hip cocking to the side, hands still in his pockets. He was the picture of casual and ease. “As for me, you don’t have to worry. Confidentiality, selective blindness and deafness, it’s all part of the job.” He smiled wryly. “If it makes you feel better, I passed the anti-interrogation class with flying colors.”

It did occur to Greg that perhaps the cheek wouldn’t be wholly appreciated. But, on the other hand, better to find that out _now_ ; he had a hell of a tendency to say what he thought, when given the opportunity, and if Mr. Holmes didn’t like that or couldn’t handle it, they wouldn’t be able to work together, much less live together.

 

*

 

Lestrade had quite clearly come to some conclusion as to why he was here. In any other candidate, Mycroft might have taken such arrogance as a striking black mark - but God help him, Lestrade rather pulled it off.

He was _fascinating,_ Mycroft realised. The ultimate misery of this whole fiasco would have been to be tailed for the rest of his days by the human equivalent of a brick wall - grunting, mumbling, trudging around after Mycroft like some tedious pet troll. Instead, a delightful dark-eyed rascal had appeared with a flash of lightning. He dared to tease Mycroft, even before he'd been offered the damn job. He was already protective of the other staff. He'd made himself thoroughly at home, and he'd barely been in the door a minute.

 _At least you will never bore me,_ Mycroft thought, with a quiet curling in his chest.

He kept his expression neutral, apparently unmoved by the humour. It wouldn't hurt to test the man's capacity for humility.

"How splendid for you," he said, without tone. "Do follow. Might I offer you tea or coffee?"

He led Greg from the hall, heading in the direction of the conservatory. It was always a very suitable place to talk - Mycroft liked the view across the parkland, and the light today was rather beautiful. It had a peaceful quality to it that would complement this discussion.

 

*

 

Greg caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth and bit down, restraining himself. _Alright, Lestrade, we’ve found the line. Time to rein it in a bit._ Despite any evidence to the contrary, he wasn’t stupid or unaware of social situations; there _was_ a sense of propriety somewhere in the depths of his soul, and he was more than capable of obeying it.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” he said politely. As vital as coffee was to performing his job, and as French as his last name was, Greg was still, at heart, British, and liked a good cuppa. He had no doubt whatsoever that any beverage served here would be well-prepared and probably expensive.

Greg paused for a moment in the doorway of the conservatory. It was beautiful; a breathtaking view, stunning light.

And, if there was ever an actual threat against his soon-to-be-employer’s life, a security _nightmare_. He very much doubted that the glass was protection against anything but drafts. A small part of him mourned the fact that at this point in his life, in his career, he could no longer appreciate a room, a home, a situation, simply for what it was; risk assessment was automatic and nearly unconscious. Beauty would always war with practicality.

 

*

 

"Do have a seat, if you wish," Mycroft said, unplugging his laptop. He gestured to the tremendously plush cream sofas, tucked his laptop beneath his arm, and said, "I shan't be long."

He stepped through another doorway into the kitchen, placed the laptop in his sight by the kettle, and filled it from the tap.

Tea took a few minutes to prepare. He opted for darjeeling; he doubted Lestrade would care. Arranging sugar, milk jug and cups on a tray (the Sri Lanka set, white and deep teal - his favourite), Mycroft's laptop then went back under his arm. He carried the tray with graceful care to the conservatory.

Laying tea out on the table, he set Lestrade's cup before him first. The man was, after all, a guest.

As he neatly stirred the pot, Mycroft glanced into Lestrade's eyes.

"How do you take it?" he asked.

 

*

 

Greg had taken a moment to examine the room when Mycroft left, and then had settled onto the couch. It was exceedingly comfortable; he was pretty sure everything here would be.

And then Mr. Holmes was back, effortlessly balancing a gorgeous tea set and his laptop, moving like liquid grace. Greg managed to keep his wits about him until the man spoke. Specifically, until he asked _that_ question.

Greg bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. The first, oh, eight or nine answers were _not_ acceptable, and included things like _on my knees, against the wall, however I can get it_ , and _I’m not picky_.

When his cerebellum had unfused enough, he said, “Just a splash of milk, please,” and was proud of how steady his voice was. Unfortunately, he was _certain_ both his heart rate and respiration had increased, and he was pretty sure his eyes were dilated.

Fuck. He glanced away, under the pretense of looking around the room again.

 

*

 

Mycroft poured the tea with quiet care, added a small amount of milk to each, and with discomfort placed a small spoon of sugar into his own. He knew he shouldn't, especially in front of company - but he couldn't drink it without. He supposed Lestrade would soon come to discover almost everything about him; a sweet tooth couldn't be the most shocking thing the man had ever witnessed in an employer.

Taking his own cup, Mycroft settled upon the couch opposite Lestrade - the laptop placed with care at his side, one leg crossing the other as was his custom, eyes closing as he took a first sip of tea. He'd rehearsed this moment in his mind throughout this week - not excessively, of course - nothing more than idle thoughts, easing off to sleep - and certainly not every night - but he found himself suddenly unsure where to begin.

The tea was a useful cover to think. By the time he placed it in the saucer in his lap, Mycroft had gathered his thoughts.

"I'm sure as you've surmised by now," he said, "I've asked you here to discuss the position... you intimated to me when we met previously that you'd be interested in taking up the role. Have your thoughts developed at all on the matter?"

 

*

 

 _Intimated?_ Greg thought, amused (and maybe a little fond). _Is that what you call it? When I straight up said ‘Yes, I would take the contract if you offered’? Posh git._

He didn’t say that, though. He also didn’t say _I’ve had my flat packed for most of the week._

Instead, he held his teacup carefully, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “Can’t say as they have,” he said honestly. “My answer was yes then, and it’s yes now.”

Greg took a sip of his tea and made a small, appreciative noise. He looked at the other man over the edge of his teacup. “As I said at our previous meeting, I think this could be good for both of us,” he said. “That thought hasn’t changed. Nothing so far has indicated to me that this is going to go sideways in the foreseeable future. I haven’t seen the contract, so I can’t _definitively_ say yes, you understand.”

He grinned cheekily. “I have to look for on-demand murder clauses.” The grin subsided into an easy smile, and he lowered the cup. “But barring that, I can’t see any reason I would say no.” He tilted his head to the side. “And you? Have your thoughts developed? You never actually told me if you were interested in having me.”

 

*

 

 _On-demand murder clauses. Devilish man._ Mycroft lifted his cup to his lips, using it to hide his smile, and took a sip.

He was halfway through it when the question of whether he was interested in having Lestrade was raised - to which his immediate answer was a startled cough. Midway through a mouthful of tea, this manifested itself as more of a splutter. To Mycroft, it was the single most mortifying noise he'd ever made; to the outside world, it was almost painfully elegant - a small cough and slight hitch of his breath, a swift returning of the cup on the saucer, a quick dab of a napkin.

Pink flushed furiously across Mycroft's cheeks. It was the curse of pale skin and red hair; realising it only made the problem worse.

"Excuse me," he managed, his voice strained. "I - ... r-rather too hot still to drink - " He placed the cup on the coffee table, coughed again, and drew a stiff breath.

"Yes," he said, trying to recover his thoughts, and adopted a small frown to concentrate. "The position. You are highly qualified. I have no major concerns. The initial contract is probationary - six months - in theory, it could be severed by either party at any time."

He gestured to a manila folder on the coffee table, beneath where his laptop had been.

"Do read, if you - ..." _Sweet Christ, may I kindly cease to blush now? The man has probably never blushed in his life._ "The details are all there."

The contract inside the folder was unsurprisingly lengthy; the section headed _'Confidentiality'_ was the most threatening prose one would ever find inside a legal document.

Greg's full name was already printed into the necessary spaces.

And Mycroft's signature was already swirled across the final page.

"If you have questions..." Mycroft added, still slightly hoarse from his coughing incident, and visibly resisting the urge to loosen his top button. He eased a finger discreetly beneath his collar, affording himself a fraction of extra room to breathe. "Do say."

 

*

 

Greg restrained his triumphant smile. It was a tiny reaction, but it _was_ a reaction. And that blush was _stunning_ , if he did say so, himself. _Too hot. Uh huh. Point to Lestrade_.

He picked up the contract, opened it, and squinted. “Crap. Should have brought my reading glasses,” he said, mostly to himself. He moved the contract back and forth until it came into focus, and he began to read.

Just once, Greg had signed a contract without reading it thoroughly. _That_ had been a huge mistake, and one he would never make again. Sue had been right, though; the damn thing was the size of a paving slab.

He settled back, focusing on the words. Translating from legalese to plain English was something he was getting better at, but it wasn’t instantaneous, by any means.

Unbeknownst to him, his lips moved just slightly as he read the contract at forearm’s length.

 

*

 

As Lestrade read the contract, Mycroft gave him the peace and quiet he needed to do so. He drank his tea, and tried not to adore the sight of the man reading to himself. He didn't know why he liked it quite so much. The thought of reading glasses was oddly evocative, too. Reading, idly, lying in a chair, while scruffing that magnificent silver hair with one hand...

_Dear lord. I must find myself a hobby._

Mycroft opened his laptop in the quiet, answered a few e-mails and finished his tea, keeping half an eye on Lestrade for questions. It was a rather standard contract, forged around an iron core of confidentiality. Mycroft had read it himself three times now. He could find nothing that should cause undue alarm, nor seem wildly unfamiliar.

As Lestrade drew towards the end of the contract, Mycroft realised a pen of some kind would be required. He reached instinctively for his jacket pocket, then recalled he was not wearing his jacket. He stepped briefly into the kitchen, returning with a fountain pen that he placed upon the table, ready for when it was needed.

"The start date can be flexed," Mycroft said, with care, as Greg reached the final page - key details and signatures. "I appreciate that Monday gives you very little time for loose ends. If you'd rather set it back by a week... I shall do my utmost not to be assassinated in that time."

His eyes glinted.

 

*

 

Greg set the contract on the table and rubbed his eyes, smiling faintly. “Glad to hear it,” he said, leaning forward and putting his elbows on his knees. “But the start date is fine. I don’t have any loose ends to tie up. And the contract looked fine, as far as I can tell. Mrs. Lehrmann told me that my clearance would need to be raised; I’m ready for it. Confidentiality - keep your mouth shut or else - pretty expected. It all looks good.”

He grabbed the pen and signed the bottom of the page with a smile. He closed the file and placed the pen on top of it.

He offered his hand and a warm smile. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Mr. Holmes. May I see the house, if it’s not too much trouble?”

 


	7. The Tour

 

Mycroft's insides squirmed at the handshake. _Damn it, this isn’t meant to be so enjoyable._ It was Greg's grip, he thought - all that power, all that muscle, restrained into a single easy grasp - it made him feel rather weak at the knees.

"Not at all," he said, flushing again, and closing his laptop. "I'd be glad to." He placed the laptop beneath his arm, stood up and latched the French windows, leaving the contract where it was for now. He would attend to it later. Seeing Greg sign the thing had evoked a strange, pleasant excitement in the pit of his chest - a curiously warm relief - it made him want to smile. _You are now my bodyguard. You are in my employ. I am your client, and my safety is now your priority._

_This is now your home._

"I can have details of the security system ready for you for Monday," Mycroft said, showing Greg firstly into the kitchen - large, modern, and with the sort of gorgeous floor-to-ceiling windows that let in both plenty of light and plenty of security threats. "Naturally there are a number of alarms, in various places around the property... I - imagine we have blind-spots here and there. Your recommendations for improvements would of course be welcomed."

 

*

 

Greg looked around the kitchen with the sort of smile that threatened to break into a grin. It had been years since he had been anywhere near a kitchen of this size; his own flat had a kitchen that made you bump elbows with yourself. Here, there was counterspace, top of the line appliances, and plenty of storage space. Those, windows, though. Made him itchy.

“I already know there are security holes,” he said, glancing sideways. “Number one being all these enormous windows. Not that there’s much to do about it, other than maybe getting someone in here to replace the glass with something shatter-resistant. Bulletproof isn’t really necessary, since you said there’s no active threat against you.” He smiled wryly. “And frankly, most people are more likely to throw a rock through the window than shoot it, unless you’re standing in front of it at the time.”

He wondered if there were cameras, and if so, where the footage was stored and who reviewed it, and how often. See if they were constantly recording, or motion activated. He’d do a couple trial runs, find the blind spots, test how easy it was to get into the house unseen.

As they started walking through the house, Greg’s mind was racing. One half was assessing; looking at potential weapons, blind corners, things like that. The other half was going _holy shit I live here now_. It was a tad distracting.

As they passed some empty rooms, he peered in. “Hm. Might commandeer one of these,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “If you wouldn’t mind. Turn it into an exercise room. I know you said there’s no reason to worry, but I still need to keep in form, and I don’t much fancy driving an hour away just to go to the gym.” He grinned. “Besides. I can teach you some self-defense moves and some dirty tricks. Make my job easier.”

 

*

 

Mycroft had just about managed to cool all the heat from his cheeks. The thought of learning dirty tricks with Greg Lestrade brought it rushing back at once.

"Oh - yes, that's quite fine. I'm sure it can be arranged." He had a running machine up in his bedroom; perhaps it could be relocated down here. It might provide a useful nudge to work on his fitness somewhat, if he now had an employee who knew about such things. "Do let me know what you'll need, and I'll acquire it. I should say that food is usually delivered on Friday evenings... if there's anything in particular you'd wish to have, provide my assistant with a list and she'll order it for you. I'll make sure you're introduced."

As they made their way around the rest of the ground floor, Mycroft's penchant for interior decor became more and more apparent. Every room had little touches and personal objects, paintings that gave the period surroundings a much brighter and cosier feel. He occasionally adjusted things that had shifted out of place; he seemed to know his home very intimately.

In each room, he watched Greg carefully for reaction - still, on some level, hardly daring to believe this was unfolding.

 

*

 

Greg nodded a little, already putting together a list in his head. They moved on.

The quiet, understated luxury of the house was quickly becoming clear to him. Being a fairly tactile person, he ran his fingers along pieces of furniture, the edge of windowsills, and along the walls, taking in textures and placement in one. His eyes were warm, taking in detail, and a faint smile curving his lips. It felt like a dream, still; that he was to live here for the foreseeable future. Him, Greg Lestrade.

The world was a funny place, sometimes.

He took note of the bathroom, amused by the luxury even there. It was a half bath, containing a toilet, a sink, and not much else, but even those items were pristine and whispered _expensive_. It was a little precious. Mycroft had a taste for nice things, but was by no means ostentatious or showy. Everything was elegant, tasteful, classic.

Just like the man himself. It was wonderful to walk through the house, watching him in his domain. It had occurred to Greg that Mr. Holmes was a man who knew the world like a favored coat, who wore it with elegance and ease. But here, it was more like… a favorite pair of slippers. Comfortable, broken in, and personal. Here is where he would see the real man, not the facade he wore for everyone else.

Greg was looking forward to it.

 

*

 

After the ground floor was complete, Mycroft led Greg back to the reception hall and up a wooden staircase that wrapped around the outside of the room. Every step creaked cosily; this wasn't the kind of staircase that permitted too much sneaking. The house's combination of older areas and newer additions was decorated rather seamlessly; only the fixed fittings gave the game away.

"I've owned the house for just over fifteen years, now. As horrifying a realisation as that is. I've been living here on a permanent basis for around... five or so, I think. I maintained a flat in London until that point. It was a case of convenience over comfort."

At the top of the stairs, the corridor offered three options - a north wing, south wing, or a pair of solid oak doors carved with a coat of arms. They faced the top of the staircase, and Mycroft hesitated as he saw them.

"We - should perhaps view the library first... though these doors are always locked at night, and the windows are old. The gap is no more than a few inches, I think. I'm sure it won't be of interest."

He reached inside his waistcoat for a key.

The oak doors opened, perhaps surprisingly, onto an enormous metal fire door. Mycroft knelt down, releasing the catch that bolted the door to the floor.

"The, ah - collection is - somewhat valuable," he explained, sounding rather embarrassed. "Far too many private libraries are lost to fire... precautions are always - ..." He dug his fingers beneath the shutter, and hauled it up above his head.

The scene that appeared was a historian's dream.

It looked like something from an Austen novel - a long, immaculately-kept library, antique shelving full to the brim with books arranged in pristine rows. A treasure hoard of Mycroft's souvenirs and trinkets bedecked the room; stone statues from East Asia, jade figurines, a vast ornamental rug that ran nearly the library's entire length. There was a fireplace at the far end, with two comfortable armchairs either side. A polished mahogany table stood to one side for writing, currently hosting a number of open books for research. A chandelier hung overhead; there were floor lamps for reading at night.

Mycroft acted as if they'd walked into a cleaning cupboard. His eyes were guarded, his shoulders a little tense. He didn't dare even glance at any of his precious books - as if he could make them not exist, by not looking at them - and then perhaps Lestrade wouldn't notice.

"As you can see, the - windows are large but... the leaded panes are likely to stop any sort of - ..." He waved a hand. "I doubt it's a concern. There are no other entrances to the room. It's not always locked in the day, but I check it and attend to the fire door every night before I retire."

 

*

 

 _Precious man._ Mycroft clearly had a deep attachment to this room, despite his attempts to appear as though it were otherwise. And no wonder, Greg thought; it was stunning. He had never seen anything like it, and he had seen quite a lot in his lifetime.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, eyes wide as he took the room in. “This is - Mr. Holmes, sir, this is - _amazing_.” He turned a little on the spot, looking at everything. “Security is fine - the door will keep most people out, and windows aren’t such a concern up here,” he said, almost to himself.

It was only years of self-restraint that kept him from roaming throughout the room, examining everything. He put his hands back in his pockets to resist the temptation to touch, as though he were a small child in a sweet shop. Frankly, he _felt_ like a kid in a sweet shop. Bodyguard he might be, dropout he might be, but he had a deep love of books.

The soft, warm smell of old books; the rug; the decorations; the fireplace; it was all so _perfect_ , and gave Greg quite the insight into Mycroft Holmes.

He turned and smiled at the other man, eyes shining with it. “It - reminds me of the library near where I grew up,” he offered. “I’d take Melody when she was small. Spend hours there. Kept her quiet and kept me out of trouble.” Those were some of his best memories of childhood, if he were to be honest. Hours spent with Melody in his lap, reading to her quietly; as they got older, the two of them reading side by side until the library closed. Things had changed, of course. Such was life. They stopped going to the library as they grew much older, but those memories he still cherished.

 

*

 

Mycroft flushed, lost for what to say. He wasn't used to having people in here - it was rather a hidden passion of his, and not something he talked about often. There were many things he'd expected of his new bodyguard; an appreciation of an antique library was not one of them. Reassuring himself that this man now worked for him, that it was safe to share, Mycroft ventured:

"It's - the Atkinson-Knight collection. It came with the house. Rather one of the main attractions for me..." Mycroft cast a quiet eye around the shelving. "Twenty-two thousand items, if you can believe. Largely nineteenth-century, but - the earliest books are from the sixteenth. Lives of saints. A number of old histories." He gestured nervously to the upper walkway surrounding the room, where the rarest items were kept safe in glass cabinets. More of Mycroft's collected antiquities were visible. "A... rather sedate hobby, but... I've made a few useful additions since I acquired it. We occasionally have researchers."

He coughed, quietly turning one of his cufflinks.

"They always come recommended by a university or other academic body," he added, recalling that Lestrade was now paid to be suspicious of visitors to the house. "It's - not a frequent occurrence. The collection is rather specialist."

_Dear lord, why am I rambling on? He is a bodyguard, not a friend from my book club._

"Shall I - show you to the bedrooms?" he said. "Most are in the north wing - except for mine. And yours, of course. They're in the south. S-Slightly older, but - architecturally quite pleasing. Similar in style to the library."

 

*

 

Greg hummed a little under his breath. He’d have to make sure he saw the background checks of all the researchers who were cleared to see the collection, but didn’t suspect it would be too much of an issue. Someone masquerading as a researcher was more likely to be interested in stealing something from the collection, not in killing his employer. Theft wasn’t his department.

His employer. The thought still gave him a little thrill. He wondered idly when it would wear off, and secretly, in his heart of hearts, hoped it wouldn’t.

“Bedrooms, right, sure,” he said, smiling a bit. “Lead on.”

He was quite enjoying this, to be honest. Seeing the house, seeing how Mr. Holmes interacted with everything… it was an experience that he was treasuring already. He looked forward to seeing the bedrooms.

Well. Two bedrooms in particular.

 

*

 

The tour of the north wing was rather functional - most of the bedrooms were spare, and had little in them of any interest. The only room that was used with any frequency was Anthea's, and she kept few personal things on immediate display. Mycroft had a feeling his assistant might not appreciate The New Boy investigating her private room too closely. They moved along quite smoothly to the south wing, which had fewer rooms, but all of them larger.

"You - will probably wish to use this bathroom," Mycroft said, opening a door to a gorgeously appointed space with a roll-top bath and views out towards the woodland. "The door has no lock, but only I sleep in this part of the house. Anthea uses a different bathroom."

The elegantly-branded toiletries dotted around were Mycroft's; the razor beside the mirror was his. The white flannel robe on the back of the door was his, too, and the toothbrush in the holder.

"Your room is one along," Mycroft added, wondering why he was suddenly rather aware of his voice - why they suddenly seemed more alone here, and why it seemed so suddenly remote from the rest of the house. He supposed it was because they would be sharing this space. An odd thing, for an employer and a servant to do - but then, unless Lestrade was going to stroll all the way to the north wing in a towel, and possibly encounter Anthea in the bath, there were only so many viable options here.

 

*

 

No lock. The thought caused - a number of feelings. Interestingly, the first was _not_ what a security nightmare that was. That was, in fact, the second thought. The first thought was the idea of walking in on his boss in that bath, soaking in warm water. Would there be bubbles? Fragrance? Steam?

 _Okay, Lestrade, stopping that train of thought right now,_ he thought fiercely. His eyes scanned the room, expression a little tense. He imagined his toiletries in place, as well. (He would never use Mycroft’s, for so many reasons.) His razor. His towels. His toothbrush. They would be sharing this space.

That caused another flare of something warm in Greg. Rather than being low in his stomach, however, it was higher up, near his chest. Near his heart.

“Might have to get one of those showerheads that attaches to the faucet,” was what he said, after a moment. “Don’t get me wrong, I love a good soak,” though he really hadn’t had one in years, his lifestyle and career just didn’t permit it, “but after a workout, you just wanna get clean.” He glanced at Mr. Holmes. “Unless the bathroom in the north wing has a shower?”

They hadn’t really looked at that one; hadn’t needed to. That would be fine, if there was. He could use this bathroom usually, and use the shower after a long day or a workout. Walking the hallways in a towel wouldn’t bother him: Greg was many things, but _shy_ wasn’t one of them.

 

*

 

Mycroft's gaze quietened with apology. "No, I - I'm afraid only a bath. I'm sure a shower-head can be arranged, though." The installation of an entire shower might not be much of a problem, Mycroft thought. Any excuse to modernise.

This felt so strange to discuss. He wondered for a moment if he should have left the tour to Anthea - she would have been capable of showing Lestrade a bathroom without feeling oddly vulnerable. Was this all blurring the professional relationship, he thought? Would Lestrade be able to kindle any kind of respect for him at all? He supposed that he'd had little choice in the matter - his superiors had dictated the bodyguard was to sleep no further than one room away. That was that.

As he opened the door to Greg's room, Mycroft stood back to let him enter first - this was, after all, Lestrade's space.

 

*

 

Greg blinked and looked around. His brain short-circuited, leaving only motor functions going to bring him into the center of the room. He turned slowly, taking it all in.

It was far, _far_ nicer than anywhere he had ever lived. Ever. Even temporarily.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. He did a slow circuit of the room, running his hands over the furniture. Here, he could put his family photos. Here, his books. He ran his hands over the bed and chuckled a little. The sheets were a higher thread count than anything he had slept on.

“Jesus,” he murmured, almost under his breath and mostly to himself. He was sorely tempted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming.

This all felt unreal. Sharing a bathroom with someone. Living in this gorgeous house. Living with this gorgeous man. How the hell had he gotten here?

 

*

 

"I - hope it's suitable." _Dear God, does he like it? Does he loathe it? Is he already regretting this entire decision?_ "Obviously, changes can be made to suit your requirements - the space is yours to do with as you wish, for the duration of your employment. Anthea can arrange a van to bring your possessions, if it helps... and if you require any additional furniture - ..."

 _Is this how it feels to move in with someone?_ Mycroft didn't know. He was suddenly questioning everything - the decor, the amount of space, the furnishings. Had he made an error in the choice of bed? It was an antique sleigh bed, brought from storage specially - king-size - he'd chosen it as something of a feature of the room, but he was now worrying that he'd appalled Lestrade in some way. Was it too much? Was it not enough? This was mortifying.

Humour, Mycroft thought.

Humor would fix this.

"I'm located through the panelled wall," he said, indicating the one behind the headboard of Greg's new bed. "If you hear screams and scuffling in the night, I imagine it can be punched through for convenience. Perhaps a sort of cat flap might be less destructive, though. I'll have one fitted."

 

*

 

It was too much. Greg couldn’t hold his composure any more. The overwhelming sense of this being unreal, the sheer luxury of the surroundings, the idea that he’d need a van to move his things, and then _Christ_ , the man’s _wit_.

He lost it. He fell onto the bed, landing on his back and laughing uncontrollably. He could only pray that his new employer realized that he was laughing _with_ him, not _at_ him, since Greg was in a position to be able to explain that. He could barely _breathe_ , never mind talk.

Tears sprang to his eyes as he kept laughing. The feeling of being on the enormous bed, in the enormous house (an estate! A fucking estate!), in his scruffy jeans and old t-shirt, across from Mycroft Fucking Holmes looking impeccable, only redoubled his laughter. His arms wrapped around his waist and he curled up a little, gasping for breath as tears came to his eyes.

 _“Cat flap,”_ he managed, gasping, before descending into cackles again. Much to his chagrin, he started snorting as he laughed. Melody did it too; seemed to be genetic. They would get laughing about something, one of them would giggle-snort which would set the other one off, and they’d be locked into a cycle until they could get themselves under control.

And, predictably, thinking about _that_ only set him off all over again. Mr. Holmes probably thought he had cracked.

 

*

 

 _Dear lord._ It seemed that Lestrade was a madman. Unfortunate that the ink was now dry on the contract. Mycroft watched him gasp and laugh and snort and clutch at his stomach, and wondered if this explosion had its origin in relief or shock - perhaps both.

And damn it, if the man's laughter wasn't a delight. Mycroft hadn't seen someone laugh that way in years. His mere presence usually seemed to dampen joy in other human beings; far more often, he had the experience of entering a room and hearing conversation briefly stall. People monitored themselves around him. It was because they could feel him monitoring them; he didn't mean to. It was his nature.

Lestrade didn't even seem to notice.

 _Oh, God._ To think of what he'd expected this moment would be - reluctantly showing some bald and sulking troglodyte into the room, hearing a vague grunt in response.

Instead there was Lestrade, laughing like a puppy.

Mycroft watched him, heart straining.

Some very young, deeply buried part of his nature imagined it for a moment. Just climbing on the bed with the man, and - laughing. Playing. Rolling around as if they were in long grass. Or just kissing him - just sitting astride those magnificent thighs, feeling their easy denim against the pressed wool of his suit, catching Lestrade's mouth. _God help me._ The man made him want to have fun.

Little else ever did.

 _How nice it might be,_ Mycroft thought, his face now curved in a helpless smile. An employee who might also serve as a friend. Lestrade seemed immune to so many of the things that made Mycroft a poor choice of social contact. And they would be together often, and Lestrade would be here... six months, at the least.

It was nothing but good fortune that the man was heterosexual. God alone knew what might have transpired, otherwise. That previous marriage to a woman stood like a safety barrier in Mycroft's mind - _this far, and no more_ \- and he could now get to know Lestrade, enjoy his company and admire him across that impassable divide. It was a safe and comforting distance.

And they could be close, across it.

It was more than Mycroft had had in many years. It would be wonderful, he thought. And he'd been so convinced this entire 'bodyguard' business would be unbearable.

A knot of worry eased in his chest, his eyes shining. He'd forgotten entirely to hide his smile. Even as he remembered, he couldn't bring himself to do it - not with Lestrade laughing so easily like that. It would seem deceptive. Cruel, almost.

_God above, you are lovely._

_I will treat you very well._

"Forgive me," he said, feeling something warm and rather sugary rising in his chest. He offered a hand to Lestrade to help him up. "My sledgehammer wit. Would you like a glass of water?"

 

*

 

 _Breathe, Lestrade, breathe. We remember how to do that; been doing it for decades,_ Greg lectured himself. He reached out and took the hand, sitting up. Mycroft would feel the slick burn scar that lay across his left palm; a souvenir from grabbing a hot gun some years ago. “Sorry, I’m sorry, Jesus,” he wheezed, still grinning. “Sorry. Ow.” His other arm curled around his abdomen. It felt like he had done too many situps, and he loved it. It felt good, to laugh like that.

It had been far too long since he had.

“Yeah, a glass of water might - might be good,” he managed, breathing out in short huffs to try and gather some semblance of control and decorum. “As long as I don’t start laughing in the middle of it and set myself off all over again. I’ve done that once or twice, and there’s no helping me, then. Water up the sinuses, laughing like a hyena... terribly sexy.”

He pulled himself into a standing position with Mycroft’s help, contact lingering perhaps a touch long. His eyes were still shining with tears and mirth, and he wiped his face, face red. “Sorry,” he said again.

As Greg caught sight of Mycroft’s smile, his own expression settled a little bit, gentling into something softer, something more warm than amused (hysterical). “Sorry,” he offered one final time, quieter but no less sincere.

 

*

 

"Quite alright," Mycroft said, and meant it utterly. His eyes shone, soft blue-grey in the light from the arched windows. "I'll fetch you some water. My room is the next door along - I imagine you'll need to give it your professional eye. Do feel free. I shan't be a minute."

He let himself out of Greg's bedroom, made his way along the corridor to the stairs, and descended them with a smile.

 


	8. Lady of the Manor

 

Mycroft Holmes's bedroom was, next to his library, quite the jewel of his home - his bed of the same size and style as Greg's; the furniture made of darkened, grand old oak, and Mycroft's very favourite treasures displayed with care. Many of the antiquities in his room featured cats - a stone figurine of Bastet, Chinese jade pebbles of sleeping felines, and above Mycroft's dressing table, Renoir's _Girl and Cat_ from 1881 - which, if examined, would reveal itself to be the original. A shelf by the bed held the books Mycroft read at night to relax: classical mythology, Christopher Marlowe and Francis Lathom; _A Year in Arcadia;_ Matthew Lewis's _The Monk; The Sins of the Cities of the Plain;_ Oscar Wilde; E. M. Forster; _A Room in Chelsea Square._

Mycroft's pyjamas were folded upon the pillow - pale dove-grey cotton.

Settled upon them, sound asleep, was a Siamese cat.

 

*

 

As Mycroft descended the stairs, Greg walked into the man’s bedroom. His composure returned as he trained a professional eye on the surroundings. Truth be told, aside from a panic button beside the bed, there wasn’t much need for security in the room, itself, especially with him next door.

Greg wasn’t one to brag, but the most competent component of the security system was now him. Everything else was backup: it fell to him, in the end, to keep Mr. Holmes safe, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

He smiled faintly as he took in the room. Here, like the library, the man behind the mask came out. A cat lover, obviously; he found himself unsurprised, and more than a little endeared. He loved all animals, personally, but his work schedule was usually far too unpredictable to allow him to care for anything living.

He turned a little on the spot, taking it all in. He remained silent, not wanting to disturb the graceful creature sleeping on the bed.

It was just a tiny bit adorable that Mycroft laid out his pajamas, he had to admit. Greg counted himself lucky if he managed to strip down to his boxers before bed; more often than not he found himself passing out in whatever he had on.

That would be a rarer occurrence now, though, and he was glad of it.

He heard footsteps coming up the hallway and turned with a faint smile.

 

*

 

As Mycroft entered the bedroom with a glass of water, he couldn't help but smile at the sight - Lestrade, simply standing in here. It made it feel a little more real, somehow. The man hadn't vanished like some supernatural being, never to be seen again.

He handed Lestrade the glass, and as he did, caught sight of the feline addition to his nightwear.

 _Oh, lord._ She knew she wasn't meant to be in here. It was why she liked it in here, of course, and why she liked his pyjamas specifically.

"I imagine you're going to suggest a panic button," Mycroft said, latching onto the first thread of conversation he could imagine for distraction. As he spoke, he moved - entirely casually - over to the bed. "I considered it myself when we had the new security system installed. At the time, it would only have alerted the nearest police station, and it seemed that nobody would arrive in time for it to make a great deal of difference..."

He leant down, slipped his hands gently beneath his wayward Siamese, and eased her into his arms. She was warm and soft, and Mycroft immediately felt despicable for moving her - especially as she curled into his arms, stretching, quite clearly under the impression he had woken her for a cuddle.

" - though of course, it might make rather more sense now," he went on, utilising the same talent for automatic conversation that got him through a great deal of his daily meetings. Most of political life was trusting your mouth enough to speak on your behalf while your brain did the thinking. Currently, the problem to solve was Alice - who he could not cradle like a baby while the new bodyguard was here, but had decided the thing to do was now bat gently at his chin and yowl a sleepy greeting to her papa. Like all of her kind, her Siamese lungs were impressive. She rarely missed an opportunity to use them.

Mycroft acted as if he were completely unaware that he was holding a cat, as he carried her casually to the sunny armchair by the window.

"If you're only a wall away, then I suppose it would be a useful addition to the house. The company who fitted the alarms were rather good. I can put you in touch with one of their people, if you'd like to discuss the options with them yourself? You are the expert, after all."

Alice, of course, thought that he was talking to _her_ about having a panic button fitted. She naturally began to chat back, bubbling her fond replies, telling Mycroft she'd be only too happy to give them a call. He pretended he couldn't hear the little stream of meows.

He bent down, placing her as casually as he could upon the chair.

Alice - who, Greg Lestrade would discover in time, possessed an intellect nearly as honed as that of her papa - eased her claws discreetly into Mycroft's sleeve. It meant that, as he stood up to leave her in the chair, she came with him.

Mycroft's automatic mouth continued, as he detangled himself patiently from his Siamese.

"Of course, if you have contacts of your own, you're welcome to use them... that goes for anything around the property. I'd like to be told of any changes in advance, as the building is listed - but obviously I'm happy to do what I can to facilitate your duties."

As he detached one silky brown paw, and started on the other, Alice moved the freed paw onto his other sleeve - and slipped the tips of her claws in again.

Mycroft's voice skipped.

" - entirely down to your professional judgement, as much as I can." He began to wheedle the paw free yet again. "The threat made against against me is tenuous at best, and I've no wish to inconvenience you... but, as my superiors will be fitting any bill for changes to my property, there's no reason not to - "

Alice, still chatting, leant up and kissed him on the nose.

Mycroft's train of thought derailed at once, crashed, and burst into flames.

He looked at her - and in a voice _just_ loud enough for Greg to catch, he murmured,

"You are being inconvenient, sweetheart. I'm talking to someone. Please be agreeable."

Alice presented her tummy to be rubbed, informing Mycroft at volume that she loved him.

 

*

 

Greg’s heart swelled and burst in a shower of fireworks. The man was clearly completely enamored of his pet, and the feeling was mutual. He watched the exchange warmly, smiling as he sipped at the glass of water.

“Not to worry,” he commented easily. “Not the most distracting thing I’ve ever seen during a conversation. You’re right, by the way - I do think a panic button would be a good idea. I’m going to need to talk to the workers who installed everything, preferably soon.”

He tried not to think of some of the more… distracting conversations he had been a party to. The one with a gun at his temple came to mind. Or the one where his conversation partner had been actively receiving oral sex. That had been - disorienting, if not entirely unexpected.

He chewed idly on his lower lip, thinking. “I can’t imagine I’ll need to change _too_ much,” he continued, eyes glazing over a little as he pictured the property and house. “As long as the coverage of the house is fairly comprehensive, I shouldn’t think you need much more than that. Maybe something motion-activated near more sensitive spots, especially since I can’t really imagine that you have someone watching your security footage every hour of the day.”

He had had clients that _did_ , and it did make his job easier, but without an immediate threat, it was more overkill than anything. Even having a motion activated alert was a bit of over-preparation, but he wanted to be ready if someone was trying to get into the house.

A hand came up and scruffed through his hair idly, and Greg smiled a little. “I’ll talk to the company, canvass my own contacts if I need to, and keep you informed,” he promised. His smile broadened. “Now, are you going to introduce me to this chatty piece of heaven?”

 

*

 

 _Oh, lord._ Mycroft supposed Alice would have made herself known to Lestrade at some point or other - quite possibly by being sprawled across his pillows, the first night the poor man tried to use them.

He gave up on trying to free her blessed claws from his sleeve, and instead gathered her back into his arms.

He carried her to Greg, with an expression of resignation that came nowhere near his eyes. He held her gently as she squirmed to have a look at Greg, letting out a shrill greeting.

"Alice," her papa said, "this is our new Head of Security. Head of Security, this is Head of Pest Control. If she finds her way into your bedroom, please do feel free to eject her. I wish I could promise you that she'll learn, but - "

Alice reached out a lazy paw for Greg's chin, her pink toe-pads splayed. She trilled another fond hello, wanting to hear Greg talk. It was quite her favourite thing.

Her eyes were a shockingly beautiful blue, and her velvet collar a perfect match.

 

*

 

Greg’s eyes sparkled and he leaned in, smiling warmly. “Hello, Alice,” he said, bringing a finger up for her inspection. “Aren’t you just the most beautiful girl in the world? Yes, you are. Who’s a precious apex predator?”

He stroked her nose delicately. “You own the whole house, don’t you, sweetness? And now you’ve got some strange man coming to live here. Well, I promise to stay out of your way as much as possible, yeah? Your territory, your rules. I’m just here to make sure your human stays safe. Isn’t that good? That’s so good. That’s what we want. You take care of the small pests, I’ll take care of the big ones. We’ll be a great team, won’t we, beautiful?”

He had always had a penchant for talking to animals and small children alike, and with an attentive audience like Alice, how could he keep quiet?

He grinned up at Mycroft, looking up through his lashes at the other man. “She’s too precious. What a treasure.”

 

*

 

It was hard to tell who was now more enamored of Greg Lestrade: Mycroft or Alice. She chatted to the man with the very greatest of enthusiasm, playing happily with his finger as she did so, her claws sheathed and her paws soft.

Mycroft wasn't certain how this moment could have affected him more. Lestrade's gentle, easy manner with her was desperately appealing, and the words of praise were tugging at his stomach in ways that they possibly shouldn't.

"She's, ah - rather strong-willed..." Lestrade wasn't wrong that she owned the house. She owned the grounds as well, and the woods, and everything in them. "And... perhaps a little spoiled."

At last, with a squirm and a nip of Mycroft's wrist, Alice announced her wish to be put down. He placed her gently upon the ground, and she slinked off at once, her tail bolt upright, her paws whisper-soft on the floor.

Mycroft had a distinct suspicion that he knew where she'd gone.

Brushing a few strands of fur from his forearms, he cleared his throat and said, "She's - in fact a very effective mouser. When she isn't asleep."

 

*

 

Greg chuckled softly and straightened up. “Well, I’m a very effective bodyguard. When I’m not asleep,” he said, winking cheekily. “So I think we’ll make a good team, her and I.”

He finished off the glass of water. “And so concludes the tour of the house?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “I promised Mrs. Lehrmann that I would keep her updated, so if you’ve finished with me for the moment, I’d like to pop out and give her a call.”

_If you’ve finished with me for the moment. Standing in his bedroom. Could you BE any more obvious, Lestrade?_

 

*

 

"Yes - yes, of course." _Unbearable, of me to detain him all this time. Nonsense with my cat. For heaven's sake, I must recover some sort of propriety._ "If you're happy to find your way back downstairs, I'll return to the conservatory... but do continue looking around, if you wish."

He paused.

"You're - very welcome, Lestrade, from this point on. I'm sure you'll have no problem settling, but if I can help in any way... and whenever you wish to take up the room, it is yours. We can begin your official duties on Monday. Whether you wish to be here in the meantime, and make yourself at home, or if you wish to remain in your current accommodation... it's quite your choice."

He stepped out of the bedroom, holding the door for Greg.

"I'll - close this door behind us, if you don't mind. Instill some sense of boundaries into Alice."

 

*

 

Greg smiled, ducking his head a little as he exited the room. The idea that he was welcome here - not tolerated, not an inconvenience to be borne with dignity, but _welcome_ \- brought a warm flush to his face. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, smiling faintly still.

“A nice idea, but somehow I think the idea of ‘boundaries’ is always going to be a foreign concept to her highness,” he joked.

He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting his weight a little. “I’ll.. probably settle in right away, then, if it’s not a bother,” he said, still a little unsure if the offer was genuine. “I’ve, ah, packed up my flat already - there wasn’t much.” This was admitted with a touch of embarrassment. “Only a few boxes, really. Shouldn’t be more than one trip.” He smirked. “I certainly won’t need a moving van.”

There was a ball of anxiety sitting low in his stomach that he didn’t particularly want to examine at this point in time, since he was pretty sure it had to do with moving in with another person. He didn’t want to think about it, because this was a _good_ move, he was _excited_ , dammit, beyond thrilled, and he wasn’t about to let the ghosts of his past ruin it.

To distract himself, he added, “I do have a car, by the way, though I’m sure I could put it in storage if I won’t be needing it.” Once upon a time, Greg had owned a motorcycle. After seeing one too many friends smeared across the tarmac, he had traded it in for something with four wheels. Being shot at and stabbed was a big enough source of adrenaline, anyway.

 

*

 

"If you wished to keep it here, I'm sure we could find room in the garage for it... though, I imagine you'll mostly travel with me when working. Outside of those times, Maguire can drive you. I have access to other drivers while in the city, too... you might not find much need of your own transport."

Mycroft smiled faintly, a quiet lift of his mouth.

"Once you've spoken to your agency," he offered, "you could return straight to London with Maguire, if you wished. She can help you to transport your belongings. You could take up residence this evening."

A flicker of humour crossed his heart.

"If you'd be comfortable with such a whirlwind progression of things. Perhaps I'm being over-efficient."

 

*

 

Greg snorted inelegantly. “Over-efficient is flossing your teeth on the john - and yes, I had a client do that,” he said, before Mycroft could interject.

He smiled. “Your plan sounds fine. I’m used to ‘whirlwind progression’ at this point. No reason to move slowly now that we’ve got things sorted out.” He tilted his head at the stairs. “I’m going to head downstairs, put this,” he held up the glass, “in the sink, and give Sue a call. If you could have Maguire ready to head back to London, I’d be grateful.”

Depending on how long it took Jinx to be ready, he might even have time to call Melody. That would be… nice. She always knew what to say to calm him down, and she’d be ecstatic for him.

 

*

 

 _Who is this John, so efficient at flossing his teeth?_ Mycroft would have to ask for the rest of the story later. For now, he'd better summon Maguire from the garage - it seemed that it was moving day.

"Of course," he said, as they moved along the corridor together. "I'll ask her to wait in the yard for you. Ah, and before I forget..." He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, removing a business card. "My contact details. Mobile phone, address, and so on. If needed. I'll likely spend the rest of the afternoon in my office, but do interrupt if I can help. I have nothing vital to finish today."

As they passed the door of Greg's new room, Mycroft suddenly paused. A thought crossed his face.

"Just - one moment..." he said, and slipped inside.

A few seconds later, he reappeared holding Alice - who'd been making herself comfortable on Greg's pillow.

"Excuse me," he said. "I must remonstrate with my Siamese. Until this evening, Lestrade. Thank you for accepting the position."

He carried her away towards his bedroom.

As he opened the door one-handed, Alice trilled in his arms. Mycroft's bemused reply was just audible down the corridor.

"Mm," he told her, fondly - a little dazed. "Isn't he?"

The door closed quietly behind them.

 


	9. Active Threat

The next couple of weeks were somewhat surreal for Greg Lestrade. Leaving behind his flat (still being paid for, but covered by his agency) wasn’t the odd part; it was the moving into the home of Mycroft Holmes that was strange.

Well. The home of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade, at least for the next six months.

Settling in hadn’t taken long; his minimal possessions had been easy to unpack. His cooking knives found a place in the kitchen, his books found a home on the small bookcase in his room. Pictures of his family went up as well, perched on the bedside table and shelves, scattered amongst the gewgaws and trinkets the twins had collected for him. His clothes barely filled a quarter of the closet space, and Anthea assured him, quite emphatically, that he would be fitted and given attire that was more appropriate for his work environment.

That was the first time they butted heads - Anthea, insistent that he had not just his appearance, but Mr. Holmes’, to think of; Greg, insistent that he had Mr. Holmes’ _life_ to think of, and that he couldn’t do his job in a tailored suit.

Compromise was eventually reached by enlisting the service of a speciality tailor. All his suits were to be designed for ease of movement, and to allow him to conceal and draw his weapons easily. Greg still felt like he'd be overdressed much of the time, but he'd learn to live with it - especially since he could be more casual around the house.

As his new employer watched him measured and fitted, in a sunlit shop on Saville Row one afternoon, there was the smallest of smiles on Mycroft's face. He gave his new bodyguard a look of quiet reassurance.

"You'll do well, Lestrade," he said. "I'm certain of it."

He handed over his credit card details without a blink.

"Navy," he told the tailor, as he did, with another small and bright-eyed smile. "The darkest you have. Thank you."

 

*

 

Much of the first two and a half weeks of employment found Mycroft and Greg together almost every minute of the day. Greg didn’t hover, exactly, but for the most part, where Mr. Holmes went, so too went his bodyguard - even around the house.

When Mycroft first commented on it, exasperated, Greg calmly replied with, “I need to know how you move so I can protect you. If I can’t anticipate your movements, I could make a mistake. And you would pay for it, possibly with your life.”

That shut him up.

So afternoons and evenings often found them together, Greg with a book and reading glasses perched on his nose, Mycroft bent over some document or other that could, and would, topple governments. Alice wandered happily between the pair of them, going from lap to lap as it pleased her.

It was almost domestic, though no one in the house would ever dare call it that - especially not the two men themselves.

 

*

 

Changes to routine happened slowly, for the most part; meals shared together, working out bathing schedules so that no one had any awkward encounters. They were both early risers, used to running on little sleep, and found it easy to adapt to a rhythm they were both comfortable in.

The exercise room was set up on the ground floor. It was better than Greg could have dared dream; a wall was knocked out to enlarge the space and a small shower room was installed. Top of the line equipment, mats on the walls, a small sparring area, floor to ceiling mirrors - everything he could ever possibly need. He figured once they were a little more comfortable with each other, he could get to teaching Mr. Holmes some basic self defense. Only if the man was interested, of course, and purely in the interest of having him be able to protect himself.

Certainly not because it would allow them to get up close and personal.

 

*

 

Anthea was around more often than not; she didn’t _technically_ reside there, but Greg was always a little startled when she wasn’t around. She took care of some of the more mundane things: calling repair personnel, ordering food and meals, making sure the cleaning staff came through on time. Sometimes he wondered how she did it, and how Mycroft had ever managed without her.

 

*

 

The first slightly dodgy moment between Mycroft and Greg came when Greg came up behind him and put a knife to his throat, other arm locking him in place. “Dead,” he growled, breath whispering across his employer’s ear.

Greg had informed the other man that he was going to run a security check at some point. He had walked the perimeter, found the cameras, and found the security system _sorely_ lacking. The sheer number of blind spots was appalling, and got his professional hackles up. He knew his employer would allow him to make the necessary changes, but he wanted to make Mr. Holmes to _understand_ why the changes were necessary.

Perhaps there was no active threat, but the man had very valuable items and information stored within the house, and it had been far too easy to sneak in undetected. The motion sensors were too far apart; the camera arced in slow sweeps rather than covering a fixed area, and there were no security lights at all. It was a joke, a damned joke. Oh sure, it _looked_ impressive, and had probably scared off more than one amateur burglar, but anyone even half-serious would laugh at the sight of it.

The alarms had taken a little more time to navigate, but he had found the emergency override code online - and no one had changed it since it had been installed.

 _When I get a hold of these so-called ‘professionals’, I’m going to give them a ruddy good talking to -- and Mr. Holmes and Anthea, as well,_ he had thought furiously. The weakest point in any security system was always the humans utilizing it, but that they had just trusted that the professionals would change the emergency override code; surely they were smarter than that!

So, late one evening, as Mycroft was working and Greg was reading, he got up under the pretense of going to the bathroom. Entrenched in his work, the taller man didn’t notice when he didn’t return. They would be having a talk about being aware of one’s surroundings, even in relative safety.

From there, it was easy to make his way off the property without being spotted, back _onto_ the property without being spotted, make his way through the house, and creep up behind the other man.

Which was how they found themselves in their current position: Greg pressed up against Mycroft’s back, lethal weapon at his throat, pinning him in place, and growling threateningly in his ear. They had installed a panic button in Mycroft’s room, should an emergency happen at night, but the man had insisted that there was no need for a portable one that could be kept on his person.

Hopefully, this would change his mind about that.

Mycroft stiffened like a grabbed hare in Greg's arms. His hands froze on his keyboard. For several seconds there was utter silence, unbroken by breath or movement of any kind, as Mycroft’s pulse drummed frantically against the inside of Greg’s wrist.

Then with a faint tremor, his employer said,

"Lestrade?"

His tone said he knew it - he _knew_ it was Greg - but he had to hear it. He had to hear the voice.

Not a muscle of Mycroft's moved.  

“Yes, sir,” Greg replied, tone gentling from a growl to a murmur. “S’just me.” He moved the knife first, moving it out away from the delicate skin of his employer’s throat before he retracted his arms.

He moved to the side of Mycroft’s chair and crouched on the balls of his feet, looking up. His expression was serious and searching, looking for the effects of his little stunt. Though the man had known it was him - and it sent a little thrill through him, knowing that Mr. Holmes already trusted him to take care of any threat - having a knife against your throat was still a frightening experience.

Hence why he had chosen the crouching position. Though the posh man was taller than him under normal circumstances, he _was_ sitting, and Greg wasn’t exactly short or small. Having someone looming over him after they had just held a knife to his throat was one unpleasant experience he didn’t want Mr. Holmes to have.

Greg knew it had been necessary, but he hoped to be able to ease any distress he had caused.

Mycroft remained precisely as he was, his eyes still fixed on the screen of his laptop. Nothing crossed his face - no relief, no anger - no reaction whatsoever. Only the stiffness of his shoulders, still high around his jaw, showed that anything had happened to him at all.

He then reached out a hand.

He closed the lid of his laptop, and stood up without a sound.

He left the room like a ghost.

A few seconds later, the sharp slam of the downstairs bathroom door reverberated throughout the house.

Alice jerked from her sleep on the couch with a little jump, looking around in alarm. Her startled blue eyes found Greg; she keened at him, her ears pricked high.

Greg winced, looking over at her. “I think I miscalculated, Princess,” he admitted, rising from his crouch. He went over to her for a few moments, rubbed the back of her neck soothingly.

Then he went downstairs, steps loud enough to announce his presence, determined to fix this mistake.

He reached the downstairs bathroom door. “Sir?” he called, rapping gently with his knuckles. “Mr. Holmes? I’m sorry. Can I do anything? Get you anything?” He bit his lip. “Or just leave you alone for a bit?”

No sound whatsoever came from within.

Greg sighed. That wasn’t a good sign. But he wasn’t about to walk away from this. He moved across the hallway, opposite the bathroom door, and slid down the wall. He would sit, and wait, as long as it took. He would fix this.

 

*

 

It was ten minutes before the door opened. When it did, a very pale and unimpressed Mr Holmes emerged, his shirt collar undone and dishevelled, tie loosened, cheeks flushed from the copious application of cold water.

Seeing Greg waiting there, his brief surprise flattened into a frown. His eyebrows lowered, grey eyes dark.

"Come with me," he intoned - and without checking to ensure that Greg followed, he moved in the direction of his private office.

There, he unlocked the door without a word, opened it for Greg - and once inside shut it smartly behind them.

Mr Holmes moved over to a filing cabinet, opened the middle drawer and searched through it in silence.

Greg worried at the corner of his mouth with two of his canines, watching the other man. The only sounds in the room were the soft shuffles of paper as Mr Holmes flipped through files.

He waited, arms tucked behind him in a looser form of parade rest. The position was automatic and a little more formal than his usual posture. It was unconscious, for the most part; reminding himself and the other man of their relative positions within the household. Who was the employee and who was the employer. Hopefully it would help soothe some of the tension in the room.

At last, Mycroft located the file he seemed to be searching for. He brought it across the room to Greg, opened it up, and handed it over.

"Drago Kovácic," he said, without introduction. "MI6, Slovenian-born, aged forty-four. Found assassinated last month in the bedroom of his Berlin apartment."

The photograph showed the guy's throat cut to the bone. The look of shock was still on his face, locked forever there in death - black blood spidering its way across his lilac silk shirt, hands fixed into claws where he'd reached up to try closing the wound.

"The assassin left no trace," Mr Holmes said, toneless. "Kovácic’s security precautions were found to be poor and he was known as a risk-taker with a complacent attitude to his own safety. Many years before, he and I were involved - along with a number of other agents - in an initiative known as the Stražar Project. I cannot divulge to you a single detail of the project. Do not ask me. I can tell you that it was kept entirely secret for good reason, and that I acted in the interests of my country.

"In the early months of last year, the identities of those involved in Stražar were leaked. We assumed nothing had come of it. My superiors believe Kovácic’s role in the project would have been enough for certain agencies to wish him dead. They believe that other agents who had a hand in the initiative are now facing the same threat. I believe they are wrong."

His face hardened suddenly.

"And if you _ever,"_ he barked, "pull a _stunt_ like that upon me again, you will find yourself waking to the farthest and coldest prison cell I can find on this planet! Do I make myself _breathtakingly clear?"_

Several reactions had crossed Greg’s face in the period between being handed the file and being barked at.

First: a massive wince that very clearly stated _whoops_. A dead coworker, assassinated in his home via a knife to the throat. A situation which had just been unknowingly replicated (only nearly, of course: Mycroft wasn’t now lying in a heap and struggling to breathe through his own blood).

Second: a frown as he flipped through the list of Kovácic's security. Mr. Holmes’ weren’t much better. More expensive, perhaps, but not utilized well.

Third: fury.

Greg snapped the folder closed and looked up, eyes blazing and a snarl already starting to form on his lips.

“Why the _fuck_ wasn’t I told about this?” he demanded, holding up the file. “You told me - told the agency - that there was no active threat against you!"

"Because _there is no - "_ Mr Holmes began.

Greg drowned him out at once.

"I would say a co-worker on some secret project being sliced open by an assassin - a strong one, and smart, by the way, it is not _easy_ to cut someone’s throat open that way, those tendons are tough and people tend to struggle - is a pretty _active_ threat! Just because you haven’t heard anything doesn’t mean you aren’t in danger - most assassins aren’t polite enough to send a note, funnily enough!”

"For _heaven's sake!_ Kovácic was a fool! He had legions of enemies! And his murder was entirely unconnected to - "

Greg brandished the folder like a weapon.

“And by the way, _sir_ ,” pronounced like he wanted to spell it _cur_ , “you have exactly _no_ room to be talking about _poor security precautions_ and _complacent attitudes!_ Do you have any idea how _lucky_ you are that it was just me?!"

_"Lucky!"_

"Your security is a fucking _joke_ , Mr. Holmes, a _joke_ ! Someone who could do the damage caused in that photo is not going to be stopped by a few cameras - _with no constant coverage, might I add_ \- and an alarm that hasn’t been reset from the default override code!"

Shock flashed across Mr Holmes's face. He hadn't known.

"I got out and back in undetected," Greg went on, "and you would have had _no_ way to tell anyone. No one would have known that anything had happened until Anthea found you, cold and dead in a pool of your own blood.”

He strode forward, teeth bared and vibrating with anger.

“How the _fuck_ am I supposed to do my job when you don’t _tell me this shit?_ ” he demanded. “I am _damn_ good at my job, I will gladly lay my life down for you without a second thought, I will do _whatever_ it takes to keep you safe, but I _can’t DO that if I don’t know what I’m up against!”_ His tone had risen to a roar, chest heaving with barely contained rage. In his eyes, fury. But fear, too, and disappointment, under the fury.

A heavy silence fell across the room.

Within it, Mr Holmes stared back at him - white-pale, shocked, wearing an expression that suggested he'd never been spoken to in such a fashion in his life.

After a painfully long time, he recovered the strength to speak.

"Kovácic," he said, shaking, "had an enemy in every corner of the world. He was arrogant. Reckless. _Stupid._ He collected other men's wives like stamps. The queue to kill him stretched from here to Moscow. His murder was _unconnected to the project._ If it had been, the project's leader would have been targeted first."

His grey eyes flashed.

"And _he_ remains alive and well," he snapped at Greg. "He has only very, _very_ recently been threatened in his home - and that is _by_ _you._ I am _not under threat."_

The shock and anger in his expression were beginning to break; distress was flooding up through the cracks. Fear wasn't something Mycroft Holmes experienced often. It left him reeling, frightened, unable to process it, and he struggled to speak as he shouted at Greg.

"And if you think you have achieved _anything,_ except to _petrify_ _me_ \- for _no reason whatsoever_ \- for God's sake - if the attack had been genuine, _you would have been in the room to stop it!_ That's the _point_ of you, _isn't it?_ I'm quite certain your purpose is _to make me feel safer, Lestrade!_ And yet you seem to be intent on accomplishing the absolute bloody opposite!"

Multiple threads of thought raced through Greg’s mind as his expression settled into something less rampantly furious.

One: that Mycroft was (was? Had been? Did it matter?) the leader of some top secret something-or-other and _fucking no one had told his bodyguard._  If there was anything Greg hated, it was being kept in the dark.

Two: that the man across from him was not used to being shouted at, especially by employees. Pure shock (and Greg’s tendency to resemble an avalanche when he got going) was probably the only reason he had managed to finish his thoughts.

Three: Mycroft Holmes was not used to being in danger, or reminded that he was a human being. Vulnerability was not a word in his vocabulary. He was used to being invincible, untouchable. And now here he was, slapped in the face by his own vulnerability. No wonder he was lashing out. Pride and fear would do that.

It was all these thoughts, pieced together, that allowed Greg to calm himself down. His expression was calm, though not apologetic or regretful.

“I am sorry, sir, that I scared you so badly,” he said, tone gentler than before. “I was unaware of the circumstances. Had I been, I would have merely pinned you to the chair.” His chin lifted just a little. “But otherwise, my actions would not have changed. I needed you to know how bad your security is. I can’t have you fighting me on this, Mr. Holmes; this is my _job,_  and I can’t afford to waste time arguing with you over whether or not a panic button to have on you is appropriate.”

His expression gentled a little, posture softening. “I need to know about things like this,” he said, holding up the folder again. “I _have_ to know about potential threats. I don’t need specifics - God knows I don’t want them - but I can’t do my job if I don’t _know_.”

Greg exhaled a little through his nose. “I’m good at my job, sir, _very_ good. But that doesn’t mean you don’t need to upgrade your security or take precautions of your own. And yes, I know: you already said that I could get your security up to my standards. But you wouldn’t let me give you a personal panic button. And this,” another gesture with the file, “just proves that I’m right.”

Another exhale. He met Mycroft’s eyes, expression gentle. “You need me, Mr. Holmes. Whether you like it or not. I’m truly sorry I scared you, but I needed you to see how much you need me. This is your _life_ , sir. I can’t protect it if you won’t let me. Please let me take care of you. Please.” His voice was soft, honest, sincere.

His employer's expression worked.

For a long time Mycroft was silent, fighting with something - something that made him look strangely young and very human. In the moment the knife had been put to his throat, the man had clearly expected to die. That wouldn't release its hold on him easily.

"Lestrade," he said at last, his voice strained. His eyes flickered. "I - I believe I - "

The door burst open with a crash.

Both of them jumped.

"Mr Holmes!" came the boisterous voice at once. "Good news! You know I thought we had red squirrels nesting in the garage? I've checked, sir. Got a ladder out and had a peek. Turns out we _do,_ and there's three of them up in the roof - and they're - ..."

Jinx's voice died in her throat, spotting the look she was now being given by her employer.

She coughed. "Well, they're... pretty endangered, so..."

She shot a nervous look at Greg; a look that said, _I've fucked up here, haven't I?_

"I'll - go," she mumbled. "Sorry. Didn't realise you were - ..."

Mr Holmes's expression shuttered.

"No, Maguire. It's... quite alright. I need to speak to you about another matter."

He didn't look at Greg.

"Buy the panic button," he said, his voice hollow. "Buy two. Buy ten. Buy as many as you wish. Kindly shut the door as you go."

Jinx shot Greg another look; one that said, _you've fucked up here, haven't you?_

Greg restrained his disappointment, expression folding into one of professional calm. He looked at Mr. Holmes and nodded, just once. “Yes, sir.”

As he passed Jinx, he took her by the arm and leaned in.

“You owe me a drink for this,” he breathed. “Tell you later.” The position looked intimate; his breath ghosting over her ear, body close, nearly brushing.

 _"Out,_ Lestrade," Mycroft barked.

And then Greg was gone, shutting the office door with a quiet _click._

 


	10. Apology

When Mycroft awoke the next morning, he kept his eyes shut to the world around him. He wasn't ready yet. He could feel the sunlight beyond his eyelids, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Anthea arrived with his breakfast tray - but he needed to think, before he could face the fact he was awake.

_What an absolute mess._

It was hard to know where to begin - and he would be spending the day with Lestrade. Every car journey, everywhere he went, every meeting he attended, there would be Lestrade.

Lestrade, who - last night - had exacted a panic upon Mycroft unlike anything he'd felt in years; Lestrade who'd then been gentle, and apologetic, and reassuring, and protective, and utterly understandable in his reasoning, and in the hurricane of it all Mycroft's only option had been to shout at the man in terror. It was that, or do what he'd really wanted to do - which was curl into Lestrade's arms and sob like a child.

He'd not felt that vulnerable for decades. A blade pressed to his throat - he could almost still feel the thing there, cold and sharp. He'd never been so sure he was about to die.

And all of it, unnecessary.

It was lunacy. There was no threat. Kovácic's fate wouldn't be his fate - it wasn't going to happen. Lestrade's job here was a waste of resources and a waste of the man's skills. Nobody was going to murder Mycroft. Nobody was even going to attempt it.

But in that moment, feeling the blade dig into his throat, he'd thought some rather different things.

A long night alone hadn't soothed Mycroft's nerves. He'd barely slept, jolting at every noise, half-tempted to wedge a chair under the door handle just to rest. He wasn't surprised to wake up feeling ten years older. The night's worry had left him more vulnerable than ever, and pale, and unsettled even in his own skin.

_And it had all been going so marvellously._

Lestrade had blended into Mycroft's life as if he'd always been here. He'd been uncertain at first - did Lestrade really need to occupy the same room as him all evening? Would Lestrade not find it dreadfully dull? - but the man's dedication to his job was beyond question. It had even begun to feel rather... comfortable. Mycroft had grown used to Lestrade's quiet presence, as familiar as his shadow. Every meal that Mycroft ate, Lestrade was now sitting somewhere nearby, eating his own portion. Every meeting that Mycroft attended, Lestrade was either just outside or standing there in the back corner, subtly present and professionally invisible. Everywhere Mycroft went, Lestrade went with him - and Mycroft had seen the admiring glances that Lestrade received, magnificent in his new suits, stern and silent in public, the picture of professional dedication, sleekly and effortlessly and unconsciously gorgeous.  

In the evenings, every time Mycroft moved, he felt Lestrade's eyes rest gently upon him for just a moment - checking, making sure.

It was oddly affecting.

He hadn't expected it to be. He'd thought having some lumbering bodyguard dogging his every moment would be hell on earth. Instead, it was... desperately reassuring. Lestrade seemed to infuse Mycroft's every waking moment with a curious, warm, quiet sense of safety.

It was why the knife had so distressed him. That sudden plunge from quiet cosy togetherness, into the realisation he was about to be killed - and then worse somehow that it _wasn't_ real - his protective Lestrade, speaking gently - and Mycroft had just wanted to be held and hushed, softened in his fear.

And _that_ realisation was the one which hurt.

If any other member of staff had pulled such a stunt, Mycroft would have fired them and taken legal advice within the hour. Now, all he wanted to do was lie in bed and possibly weep.

_Instead I must somehow proceed with my day, as if everything is normal._

He couldn't begin to imagine how he'd manage it.

Rubbing his hands across his face, Mycroft drew a breath and told himself he'd just have to be more guarded with Lestrade. This was his fault for treating the man like some kind of companion - for trusting him, settling with him, growing comfortable in his presence. Lestrade was not a friend; he was a staff member. Mycroft should not have kindled any other conviction otherwise.

Lestrade was hardly paid to tend to his fraught emotions.

 

*

 

Even before dawn, Greg had been awake, kept from the arms of Morpheus by tangled skeins of thought. One of the most powerful was _I fucked up_. It was a familiar undercurrent to his days, but hadn’t been so strong in years.

Another one was _Is Mr. Holmes okay?_ A stupid thought, perhaps; the man had been faced with his own mortality. Greg knew of very few people who took that at all well.

Another: _How do I fix this?_ It was telling that he wanted to fix his mistake, not out of fear for his job, but out of true concern for his employer. Being subjected to a torrent of strong emotions was something obviously deeply unfamiliar to Mycroft Holmes, and Greg was certain the normally stoic man would be feeling fragile today and making every effort not to show it.

It triggered every single protective instinct he had, both professional and personal. That faint crack of vulnerability after the yelling; Lord help him, but all Greg had wanted to do in that moment was pull the other man into his arms and hold him. Keep him safe from the world, help him sort out the feelings so foreign to him.

Inappropriate? Highly. Unwise? Almost certainly. But Greg couldn’t help it. So instead of doing what he _wanted_ to do, he would funnel those protective instincts into being the best damn bodyguard he could be, and maybe (hope against hope) be allowed to fix the emotional wreckage he had inadvertently caused.

When the clock flipped over to 3am, he gave up trying to sleep. He put on workout clothes and headed silently downstairs, certain that Mr. Holmes would use the panic button in his  room should anything happen. Greg made a note to have several portable buttons delivered later today.

He reached the exercise room and went through a light routine, feeling more alert and centered with every exercise. Taking his time with it gave him the space he needed to settle down, marshal his thoughts, and so when he emerged from the shower, he was ready to face the day and begin making amends.

That would begin with breakfast.

Greg intercepted Anthea in the kitchen as she prepared Mr. Holmes’ breakfast tray. “May I?” he asked, holding his hands out for the tray.

She gave him a look that could only be described as ‘glacial’, with a side of ‘appraising’ for good measure. When she found whatever she was looking for, she gave him one swift, curt nod and handed over the tray. Her expression had warmed slightly into ‘cool’.

Greg would take it. As he turned to go upstairs, tray delicately balanced, he heard,

“Be careful, Lestrade.”

He smiled a little, but didn’t turn around. “Will do, Anthea. Thank you.”

He headed up the stairs and ended up in front of Mycroft’s door. He shifted the tray to one hand and knocked, gently but firmly. “Mr. Holmes?” he called. “Are you awake?”

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart jerked to an immediate stop. He took his hands from his face, stiffening, and glanced over at the door.

_Lestrade._

_Oh God._

Unbreathing, Mycroft pushed himself up in bed, gathering the sheets to his chest. He was of course decent, wearing his preferred nightwear - pale grey cotton in a button-up shirt, rather light for the warmer weather they'd been having lately - but the instinct that he should somehow _cover himself_ from Lestrade's imminent gaze was impossible to ignore.

"Yes," he managed, his voice somewhat tight. "Yes, I - ... come in."

The restless night had tousled his hair into disarray. Without its usual product, his maternal curls were always far more evident; unbeknownst to him, the lack of sleep had also smudged itself in blue-grey beneath his eyes. The open neck of his shirt offered the pale, fragile skin across his collarbones, scattered with freckles.

His expression was of unmissable anxiety.

 

*

 

Taking a deep breath, Greg pushed the door open carefully and stepped in. His breath caught in his chest as he took in his employer’s disheveled (and somewhat haggard) appearance.

_I did this. Christ. Christ, I am so sorry. Please, God, let me fix this. Let me make this alright._

They were much of a pair; Greg wasn’t particularly bright-eyed or bushy-tailed, even with his exercise and shower. His hair was dark silver with damp still, in spite of the towel-drying he had given it earlier, and he was dressed in comfortable jeans and a worn-in shirt. When they rose properly for the day he would change, of course, but he wanted to present as non-threatening an appearance as possible.

He smiled a little, eyes gentle, and nudged the door shut with his foot. “Good morning, sir,” he said, refraining from commenting on any piece of Mr. Holmes’ appearance. “Brought your breakfast.”

_Thank you, Captain Obvious. What else would you have the tray for?_

He stepped forward, holding the tray out a little in offering. With the awkward tension between them, Greg didn’t want to push any boundaries or get in Mycroft’s personal space if it wasn’t welcome.

 

*

 

 _Oh... oh, God..._ the man was beautiful. Jeans and a shirt and gentle eyes. Mycroft was quite certain he felt his heart whimper as Lestrade entered the room, nudged the door shut, and brought him his breakfast. _A peace offering. He did nothing wrong._

Mycroft had never wanted to touch someone more.

 _Oh, Christ._ Lestrade's arms would be firm beneath the fabric of his shirt - muscle, warm skin - his hands would be gentle. He would be heaven to embrace.

Mycroft didn't care to think how long it had been since he'd embraced someone. Clearly the last occasion hadn't been all that memorable.

He took the tray, momentarily lost for words; he placed it gently to his side.

"Thank you," he managed, wishing he could sound like he always did to Anthea - polite, calm, unaffected. He just couldn't do it. "Lestrade, I - I should probably apologise for - ..."

_Oh, God. This is mortifying._

"Your - professional judgement is - ... I h-hadn't wished to suggest I held it in any contempt. Not in the least."

 

*

 

Greg swallowed a little bit at the hesitant tone. _God. An apology. How often does he apologize to anyone?_

He was resolutely ignoring the slightly open collar, those _tantalizing fucking freckles_ , and keeping his eyes squarely on the bridge of the other man’s nose. To look anywhere else would be a monumental mistake, and he had fucked up enough already.

“Apology accepted,” he said easily, soothingly. “I know that’s not what you meant, Mr. Holmes. I need to apologize, myself. I frightened you badly, and I didn’t get a chance to make it up to you.” He rolled his bottom lip between his front teeth, gesturing at the breakfast tray. “I hope I made a start, at least.”

Focus. Focus. Focus on the apology, on fixing the mistake. Focus on breakfast. Focus on your duty. Do not, whatever you do, think about taking the fragile man before you into your arms - soft, pliant - and holding him close -

 _Jesus Christ almighty, Lestrade, pull yourself together!_ He scolded himself furiously, still smiling pleasantly. He shifted his weight, the only sign of his tension.

 

*

 

_So professional. So composed._

_And I'm sitting here in bed, a mess. A wreck._

"I - ... perhaps 'frightened' is a strong term, but - ..." Mycroft tightened his hand in the sheets, closing his eyes a moment. He gave in. "Unsettled. I see the point you were making. For the record, I - genuinely disbelieve that Kovácic's murder is connected to me in any way. But then, my career history has not always been... _clean._ I've made difficult decisions and seen them out."

He hesitated, glancing into Lestrade's eyes.

"So your - suggestion is of course excellent. I'm happy to carry a panic button. I'll take your professional judgement as law, Lestrade. I have the greatest respect for your capabilities."

Distress flickered across the back of his heart, wishing this strange longing for the man to hold him would go away. It wasn't... correct. Admiring the man's unmissable physical charms was one thing. Wanting to nestle safely against his chest and be soothed was another.

 _Perhaps it was the nature of his test,_ Mycroft thought - the powerful arm across his shoulders, the knife at his throat - half-murder, half-embrace. It had unsteadied him. His first close physical contact in a desperate amount of time, and it had been with Lestrade - a Lestrade who, it transpired, was far more necessary to his well-being than Mycroft had imagined.

_Perhaps I'm wishing to correct it, somehow. A violent attack. Wishing to turn it into a gentler gesture. Our first contact... and it went so poorly._

_Heaven help me, 'first contact'? In expectation of further contact?_

_I truly am a wreck._

Realising he'd been gazing at the man for several moments, unspeaking, Mycroft shifted and reset his expression - blinking, taking a breath.

"I appreciate your graciousness, Lestrade. I'm sorry to have reacted so poorly. Discovering one's vulnerability is... distressing."

He chanced a faint smile.

"Thank heavens you're here to preserve me as well as petrify me."

 

*

 

Greg smiled in return, eyes crinkling with the expression. “No need to apologize, sir; it’s not the worst way someone’s reacted to a situation like that,” he said easily.

He tilted his head a little. “I am glad to hear that you’ll carry a panic button,” he said honestly. “And that you trust my judgement in these matters.” He chewed on his bottom lip for just a moment before continuing, voice gentle. “In the spirit of that, I would like to know about any other possible threats. Even if you don’t really believe they’re a threat, I need to know so I can be prepared.”

His mouth quirked up with the edge of a wry smile. “I’m not exactly one to throw stones about ‘unclean careers’, by the way. You’ve made decisions which have cost lives, I’m sure. Well, so have I. And then taken those lives, myself.”

He wasn’t sure, exactly, why he was mentioning this. Surely it was a bad idea, reminding someone you’d threatened with a throat-slitting that you’d killed before, and could do it again?

But something in Greg wanted to match Mycroft’s openness, his vulnerability. _Trust me. Believe in me. I’m here for you._

He wanted to reach out, grasp the man’s hand. Brush those curls back and tell him that everything would be okay.

Mycroft Holmes made his pulse race when he was in a three-piece suit and utterly in command of the room, but here, ruffled and curly and honest, he made Greg’s heart ache and swell. He was - beautiful.

_Okay, Lestrade, reel it the hell in. This is not a romance novel, this is your job. This is your life. And you do not admire your boss. Nothing good will come of it._

Even if the man had stunning eyes, beautiful skin, an aristocratic nose, legs for bloody ages -

_Enough! Christ almighty, do I need to get laid or something? This is ridiculous! Yes, the man is attractive. Leave it alone, Lestrade!_

Greg managed another smile. “I’ll always be here,” he promised. “To protect you and terrify you.” A cheeky grin. “Hopefully more of the former, of course.”

 

*

 

Mycroft couldn't fight a smile - relief, that things seemed to be settling again between them; happiness, just at seeing Lestrade here; and something else, something deeper than that - warmer - something that prompted him to the mirror the man's expressions, purely through instinct.

He glanced down at the covers, then quietly up at Lestrade again, his eyes bright.

"I'm afraid I'd struggle to supply you with a list of _everyone_ I've ever antagonised... even to the point of contemplating homicide... but if you're prepared to sign a few more confidentiality agreements, I can find you the case files of the main ones. Those who are still alive or at large, any way."

His eyes glittered.

"Adding, of course, that I don't believe I'm under any threat. If someone wanted me dead, they've had many years now in which to do it. Only very careful MI6 operatives grow old enough to work from home."

 

*

 

The warm feeling that rose in Greg’s chest as he saw Mycroft’s smile was something he knew he was going to have to bury deep and ignore, possibly for the rest of his days.

But just now, just for a moment, he held it close and savored it. He smiled, and let the warmth come through in the expression. “Are these ones going to have to be signed in blood?” he asked, just a little teasing. “The contract I already signed said my soul was forfeit if I ever said anything, so a blood pact won’t do any harm.”

The first few weeks of his employment had also included security interviews, which Greg knew meant that all he would have to do was sign confidentiality agreements for specific cases. His heart ached for a moment, thinking of Melody and Roger and Shannon and Adrienne. He was sorry that his life taking a turn for the better meant that their lives got rooted through, as well.

That always seemed to be the way.

Melody had hugged him, of course, and said that it was no bother; that their lives were much more boring than his, and that they were glad to do this if it meant he could make his way in the world. Greg was just grateful that she and Roger had no secrets from each other. They wouldn’t have lasted through three (four, now?) rises in Greg’s clearance if they had.

He shook his head a little to clear out thoughts of his family. Here and now, that’s what mattered. This time, with Mr. Holmes. “Be that as it may,” he said, half-smiling, “I’ll still need the paperwork to be allowed to see those cases. Some of these plots grow underground for years - decades, even - and spring up when you least expect it.” The smile grew from half to full. “Not to worry though, sir. That _is_ what I’m here for.”

 

*

 

Mycroft smiled wryly, his eyes soft and fond with a glint of humour.

"Yes, Lestrade... thank you for that. My people _do_ monitor where my various enemies have since taken themselves across the world. We don't just turn our backs, cover our eyes, count to a hundred then shout, 'coming ready or not'. I do take _some_ precautions towards security."

As he picked up his coffee from the tray, and eyed Lestrade with amusement over the rim, he wondered if the man was as playfully dominant in bed as he was outside it. He took a sip, trying not to dwell on the specifics - the idea of Lestrade gently, firmly, warmly coaxing a lover to rest themselves in his tender control.

It was an affecting concept.

_God help me... if you were gay, Lestrade._

Mycroft composed himself. He would never have Lestrade in his bed - but he had his bodyguard's company. Mycroft had long learned that, for a man like him, such a thing was not a small prize. He was not a coveted romantic acquisition in any way, and he'd made the greater part of his peace with it. The pleasures of friendly company and mutual respect were the most he could dream of in this lifetime.

He took another quiet sip of coffee.

"I have to meet with the chancellor today," he said, his eyes flashing. Greg had only attended one meeting with the tedious old toad so far. He'd stood perfectly calm and professional for the entire two hours, then afterwards expressed to Mycroft that he'd been contemplating throwing himself out of the window to escape the chancellor's droning anecdotes and wobbly-necked laughs. "Your favourite person. Have to smuggle in something for you to do, to hold onto your sanity... Smarties, maybe. A colouring book. A nice magazine about guns."

 

*

 

The sudden image of Mycroft covering his eyes to play hide and seek, as Greg himself had often done with his nieces, affected him strongly and he couldn’t quite articulate why. He bit back a grin, eyes sparkling with the restrained expression.

He also bit back a comment about making Mycroft’s enemies surrender, since he wasn’t certain he’d be able to hold back additional comments about making the man himself surrender, and that was ill-advised, at best.

Greg did _not_ bite back a groan at the announcement that they would be spending time with the chancellor. “If you give me Smarties, be prepared for me to practice my hand-eye coordination by seeing how close I can throw them to his atrocious comb-over,” he said, folding his arms petulantly.

He grinned, and it was mischievous. Positively impish, even. Bordering on devilish. “Can I bring a book to read?” he asked, eyes sparkling. “There’s a couple Anthea’s loaned me that I’ve been meaning to get round to.”

Greg wondered, with that streak of impishness, if Mr. Holmes knew about his PA’s secret love for really horrible romance novels. A love that Greg was not ashamed to admit he shared. He also wondered if reading said romance novels in front of the chancellor would be enough to incapacitate him with a fit of apoplexy.

One could only hope.

 

*

 

 _Curious. Lending books._ Mycroft hadn't observed that his assistant and his bodyguard had reached 'lending books' level of friendship; then, he reflected, his own threshold for lending books fell somewhere between tenth wedding anniversary and birth of first grandchild. He supposed other people were less protective of the things.

He wondered what literature Greg and Anthea were sharing. They didn't strike him as overly similar people; a shared reading preference was a surprise.

Placing his coffee aside, Mycroft cast Greg a smile and said,

"You may not bring a book - nor may you pelt the chancellor with Smarties for your amusement. You may give me discreet, despairing glances over his shoulder now and then, at times when I am not liable to laugh. Otherwise," he said, reaching up to rub at a tense muscle in the side of his neck, bunched up from poor sleep, "you can occupy yourself with whatever daydreams you choose, Lestrade... I'd suggest you pick something with some mileage in it. The intolerable man has said we'll continue over lunch if needed."

 

*

 

Greg gave an exaggeratedly exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes like a teenager. “If I must.”

He blew a small raspberry. “You better be careful, or I really _will_ throw myself out the window to escape. I’ve done it before, you know.” A small head tilt and a smirk. “Granted, it was because someone was coming at me with a machete, but I’m pretty sure those awful stories about his ‘days as a boy at the lake’ are just as life-threatening. I’m liable to be bored to death.”

Greg had plans to start practicing his imitations again, specifically of the chancellor. The vantage point he always chose put him facing Mycroft and whatever means of egress there were, which happily meant that the chancellor would be unable to see him.

He wondered how many faces it would take for his employer to lose his composure. He intended to find out.

He also wondered what it would be like to rub the man’s shoulders, feel the muscles there loosen and unwind. Feel the man himself go liquid and relaxed under him -

_Nope. Stop right there._

He heaved a sigh. “I suppose I should let you get to your breakfast, then, Mr. Holmes, and go prepare my daydreams for hours of perusal.” He rewound that sentence in his head quickly. Yes, he had said daydreams, not fantasies. Thank God for small miracles, at least.

 

*

 

Mycroft's smile warmed; he glanced down, almost coy.

"Mm. Go ahead... we'll be leaving at the usual time." Almost a shame to see the jeans swapped for the suit - then again, Mycroft knew that as soon as he saw the suit again, he'd think it would be a shame to swap it for jeans. If he had a more refined set of morals, he might have felt guilty about enjoying his bodyguard's physical charms so much.

He supposed it didn't hurt Lestrade to be looked at - and small joys made up the better part of life.

As he reached for his coffee once more, Mycroft said, coolly playful,

"Am I to expect you with my breakfast everyday now, Lestrade? Or is it only as a special treat?"

 

*

 

 _A special treat._ A small, secret part of Greg preened at being referred to as such.

“Well, me bringing it everyday would make it less special,” he said, pretending to weigh the matter, “but it would only be fair of me to relieve Anthea of the job, now that I’ve proven I can get up the stairs without dropping anything. She does so much already, and it’s not as though I have all that much to do in the morning.”

He smiled and winked. “I think you’ll be seeing much more of me in the mornings, Mr. Holmes. If you don’t mind this,” he gestured to himself, “replacing the stunning Anthea.”

 

*

 

_The stunning Anthea._

_Mm._

Mycroft took a fairly long drink of coffee, telling himself he hadn't heard that last part. His smile was polite as he put the cup back down, reaching instead for the plate of sliced apple.

"Until eight, then," he said - discreet code for, _off you pop Lestrade. I'm shortly to be naked._ "Oh... before I forget. Can you tell Maguire that I've looked into the other matter? Apparently it's quite safe to continue using the garage, so long as they're not directly disturbed - and they might appreciate a bowl of hazelnuts now and then. I'm sure she'll take care of it."

 


	11. Professional Rapport

Half past seven, and Jinx was in the kitchen. The car was ready in the courtyard for their eight AM departure. She had a short while to wait, and she'd decided to fill up the time with toast.

Mr Holmes had already completed the crossword in yesterday's paper. She was polishing off the word-search instead, doodling idly with a pen as she ate. Her cap sat on the table beside her; her top button and tie weren't yet done.

As she heard footsteps approaching the door, she sat up straight and grabbed for her top button, doing it quickly.

Then the door opened, and she saw who it was - and her face broke into a grin.

"Hey!" she said, rubbing a thumb around her mouth to catch any peanut butter. "He didn't fire you, then? What the hell did you do? Sit down. Details. D'you want a coffee?"

 

*

 

Greg laughed, adjusting his tie as he walked in. “No, he didn’t fire me. And yes, I would like a coffee.” He sat easily. “I’d love an Irish coffee, frankly, but no drinking on the job. Regular coffee will have to do.”

He grinned and snagged a piece of her toast. “You owe me this,” he said, waggling the pilfered piece. “You interrupted me calming down Mr. Holmes after I threatened to kill him.” He took a bite of the toast, waiting for her reaction to that.

 

*

 

As Jinx added two spoonfuls of coffee to a mug, she shot him a quizzical frown over one shoulder.

"What d'you mean, 'threatened to kill him'? Seems a bit drastic."

She clunked open the fridge, took the milk from inside the door and added a splash to Greg's coffee.

"And frankly, he didn't look all that calm to me... you clearly weren't doing a good job. Haven't seen him that pale in months. What did you do to the man?"

 

*

 

“It might have been a bit drastic, but it worked,” Greg said. There was the barest edge of defensiveness in his voice. “I tested the security of the house - atrocious, by the way, in case you were wondering, which I will be fixing - and, ah,” here he winced, “pinned him to the chair with a knife to his throat.”

He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Turns out that was especially not good, in the circumstances.” He gave her a look as she handed him his coffee. “Ta. Anyway, I was just getting him to open up to me when you burst in about squirrels. Which reminds me - he said it should be fine to keep using the garage. And something about hazelnuts?”

 

*

 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hold the phone. You pinned him to a chair - with a knife to his throat?"

Jinx's eyes had become the size of chocolate coins. She dropped back down into her seat, half-impressed and half-scared, and gave a huff.

"And you're still alive?" she said. _"And_ you've still got your job? How did you manage that? Must have been a hell of an apology, Lestrade."

She grinned, picking up another slice of toast.

"Said sorry on your knees, did you?" she said, with a glint in her eye.

She knew entirely what she was implying.

 

*

 

Greg choked on his coffee, spluttering and gasping for air. Red-faced, he glared at Jinx, who looked entirely unapologetic. “You’re a menace, Maguire,” he managed, voice a low growl.

He was resolutely _not_ imagining that. Definitely not. Certainly wasn’t going to be picturing it later, either. Alone. Possibly in the shower. That was not going to happen. Absolutely not.

Once he had caught his breath (and cleaned up the small spill), he said, “ _No_ , I did not. I simply explained myself.”

Greg tapped his fingers on the table. “Might have yelled at him. A bit. And then he yelled back. We were getting it sorted, though. Before you so rudely burst in.”

 

*

 

"Excuse me. Red squirrels are important - and Mr Holmes likes them. And I didn't know the two of you would be in there fighting, did I? Surprised I didn't burst in on him pinning _you_ to a chair..."

Jinx crammed some more toast in her mouth, chewed it for a while, then with a lick of her lips, added,

"Can't believe he didn't fire you. Doing that to him. He must fancy the hell out of you, Lestrade - good job, eh? Otherwise you'd be out of one."

 

*

 

Greg’s expression could best be described as ‘deeply skeptical’ with a healthy dose of ‘dismissive’. “Please.”

He sat forward a bit. “First of all, as if Mr. Holmes could pin me to _anything_ if I didn’t allow it.” _Shit. Wrong thing to say. Fuck you, mouth._

“Second of all, he does not _fancy_ me,” he continued firmly. “He simply realized that I was right - he needs me, and I’m _very_ good at my job. And I apologized again this morning, which helped, I’m sure.”

He took a swallow of coffee, daring her to say anything.

 

*

 

Jinx didn't say a word. She just grinned at him over her coffee, her expressive eyes at an almost Disneyish level of delight - served across the table with a smirk that said, _pull the other one, Lestrade, it's got bells on._

At last, she picked up her final piece of toast, took a large and bright-eyed bite - and as she chewed, said,

"Tonight, _I'll_ try pinning him to something and cutting his throat - and you can see if he's forgiven _me_ by the morning. How's that? Then we'll talk about who fancies who." She added, "-whom."

 

*

 

“Hey, excuse you,” Greg exclaimed. “I didn’t _actually_ cut his throat. I am a professional, thank you very much.” He folded his arms. “And no one fancies anyone in here, _especially_ not Mr. Holmes, and _especially especially_ he doesn’t fancy me.”

He gave her a look. “No pinning our employer to anything, Jinx. I’d be forced to take you down, and then who would I steal Doritos from, hm?”

 

*

 

Jinx's grin only widened. "I _knew_ it was you stealing my Doritos," she said. "Prick. I'm gonna put a lock on that glove-box. And I'd like to see you try to take me down, Lestrade. You're forgetting that my amiable nature conceals the cold, war-hardened heart of a soldier. I'll pin whomever I like to whatever I - "

The door opened.

Glancing over Greg's shoulder, Jinx's grin vanished on the spot. It evaporated behind a sudden wall of professional control, as she scrabbled to get her top-button done and licked a smudge of peanut butter quickly off her thumb.

"Sorry, Anthea." She reached for her cap, jamming it on her head. "Lestrade and I were just discussing Mr Holmes's security in the car. Right, Lestrade?"

A discreet nudge was administered under the table.

"Mr Holmes ready to go?" Jinx added, glancing at the clock. "Bit early. Thought we had fifteen minutes yet."

 

*

 

Greg’s eyes brightened as he watched Jinx’s reactions to Anthea. Now, wasn’t _that_ interesting. He brushed the crumbs off his hands and rose, turning to face the cold, professional woman behind him.

Anthea looked him up and down, gaze flicking over him, and her expression softened just a touch. “Mr. Holmes is unaccustomed to collecting his own breakfast things,” she said to Greg, rather than answer Jinx’s question.

Mostly she needed a moment to compose her natural reaction to Maguire, which was to smile at her. The woman was adorable; Anthea had thought so from the moment she had been hired. A touch unprofessional at times, but not everyone could be perfect. And sometimes, she had to admit, imperfection was… nice.

He nodded, taking the hint with a half a smile. “Right.” He gave Jinx a glance. “Maguire, you and I will finish our discussion later.” He strolled out of the kitchen, posture easy as he headed for Mycroft’s bedroom to collect both breakfast tray and man.

“To answer your question, Maguire,” Anthea said crisply, turning back to the other woman, “No. Mr. Holmes is not ready to go as of yet.”

She tucked one errant wave behind her ear. “As you are no doubt aware, there was a disturbance last night.” Her lips thinned, just a bit. “I know this is your scheduled early evening off. However, Mr. Holmes may have further need of you. This meeting is liable to run long, and Mr. Holmes has indicated a preference for dining away from home this evening.”

There was so much going unsaid that Anthea could only pray Maguire was picking up on, at least a little bit. _Mr. Holmes is unsettled. Mr. Holmes prefers you, out of all the drivers. Mr. Holmes needs you. Mr. Holmes does not want to be at home tonight._

The slightest head tilt. “You are under no obligation, of course.” _Please do not abandon him. He needs you. He needs us all right now_. “You would be compensated for your time.” _I can make this worth your while. Please say yes._ _Help me help him. I need you._

Her hip cocked out, just a little, as she waited for an answer, gaze heavy on the other woman’s face. She had always enjoyed studying Maguire’s face. It was lovely and well shaped, with eyes one could drown in, but it was the expressions that Anthea cherished and drank down like the finest vintage.

Maguire was so expressive, even when she didn’t mean to be. She and Lestrade were honest people, free with their emotions, but Lestrade could lock his feelings down behind a professional mask. Maguire had no such talent, and Anthea found it almost endearing.

 

*

 

A number of thoughts seemed to flash through Jinx's head; they flashed across her face, too, unskilled as she was at keeping them hidden. There was a good deal of confusion, and a little reluctance - and then an easing, and finally a nervous smile.

It came with a nod.

"Right. No, that's cool. Didn't have anything on tonight, anyway... I'll hang about until Mr Holmes is home safe. No worries."

She hesitated, glancing at the door behind Anthea - checking the coast was clear.

"Erm," she said, with the anxious _'Do I dare?'_ tone that Anthea would likely find quite familiar by now. It was Jinx's normal mode of communication in front of Anthea, and it wouldn't be changing any time soon. "Is - Mr Holmes alright, then? Lestrade seemed to think it was all cool now. Said Mr Holmes was good with it... said he'd realised Lestrade was right, and no harm done..."

 

*

 

Anthea inhaled slowly, looking Jinx over from head to toe. After so long with people who guarded their emotions and expressions like priceless jewels, it was both odd and refreshing to have someone so honest and expressive before her. She savored it, letting the moment of silence stretch out for just a few beats.

She didn’t need to glance over her shoulder to know that the coast was clear. Her posture was clear: _not a word of this leaves this kitchen_.

“Mr. Holmes and Lestrade have worked out their disagreement,” she said carefully. “I ask you, Maguire: would you be completely settled if a professional broke into your house and held a knife to your throat?”

Her eyes gentled, and the faintest hint of a smile graced her lips. “He is… better than he was last night. I believe he will be back to himself by tomorrow morning. For now, however…” She trailed off with a significant pause.

For now, Mr. Holmes was still fragile and needed the support of all of his staff.

 

*

 

Jinx shifted a little. Her grip tightened on the table edge.

"Greg - seemed sorry, anyway. Didn't mean to cause upset." She seemed to look around in her head for something to say; the nervous smile returned. "Hang on. Are they going out to eat tonight? Dinner? Is that what this is? Kiss and make up?"

Her smile became a grin.

"Hope you've booked them somewhere French. Candles. Piano music."

 

*

 

Oh, now wasn’t that interesting? Maguire was just as invested in the burgeoning relationship as Anthea herself was. It was written all over the other woman’s face. A secret part of her squirmed with glee.

But Anthea couldn’t encourage such a thing in other employees. “I don’t believe ‘kiss and make up’ is on the itinerary for this evening, no,” she said, voice clipped. “And you would do well to keep such things to yourself, in the future.”

One perfectly pencilled brow rose. “But yes, as a matter of fact, the choice of venue this evening _is_ French. And I do believe there is a live piano player. The status of candles is, lamentably, unknown at this time.”

Something sparked in her, something she hadn’t felt in a long time: she wanted to spend time with this woman. She decided to pursue it, out of curiosity if nothing else.

“You may find out personally, if you wish. I had the foresight to book two tables.” Anthea tilted her head, waves of hair framing her face quite prettily as she looked up through her lashes. She knew what she looked like, and how to use it to get what she wanted.

“Quite separate. Mr. Holmes doesn’t appreciate hovering.” _Except in the case of Lestrade_. “I had been planning to dine alone, at a distance from the pair of them, but you are welcome to join me.”

She wondered, idly, if Maguire knew how completely rare it was for her to offer to share her time with anyone. She had casual acquaintances, and people she, ah, _entertained_ on a semi-regular basis, but no more than that. And she was happy that way. But something about this energetic, nervous, bubbly woman made Anthea want to spend time around her.

How curious.

 

*

 

Jinx's eyes widened.

"Oh, so - eat, while Mr Holmes and Lestrade are - ..." She managed to restrain the air-quotes, but they came out in her voice. " - ... repairing their professional rapport."

She coughed.

"Sure. Sure, that sounds - fine. I've got the formal waistcoat in the car, so... should be able to scrub up." Her eyes flashed nervously, a bubble of panic and humour - and behind it, the deep wish to be liked that Jessamine Maguire put out like flashes from fireworks. "Scrub up a bit, anyway."

A thought seemed to occur.

"Do - Mr Holmes and Lestrade _know_ they're going out to dinner?" she asked, in a voice that suggested she wasn't sure which she loved more - that Anthea had set the two of them up on a cosy little date, or that Mr Holmes had told her to do it.

 

*

 

Anthea blinked prettily, a small smile gracing her face. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

 _‘Repairing their professional rapport’,_ or, in layman’s terms, _‘eye-fucking the hell out of each other’._

Speaking of eye-fucking…

She raked her eyes over Maguire, a very calculating look in her eyes. Seduction wasn’t the aim of the night, but it could be a very pleasant side effect. The other woman was quite fit, and the uniform suited her well.

It should, after all; Anthea had had it tailored specifically for her measurements.

And what lovely measurements they were.

“I’m sure your attempts to scrub up will be more than adequate,” she said. There was the barest edge of a purr in her voice, curled as the corner of her perfectly-lipsticked mouth was.

The curl turned into a smirk and she lifted her chin. “Mr. Holmes is aware that he is dining out this evening. Lestrade is aware that he will be accompanying Mr. Holmes, as is his duty.” Her hand waved dismissively. “And I did _mention_ that I had booked two tables. It’s no business of mine that Mr. Holmes didn’t ask how many occupants would be at each table.”

 

*

 

Jinx's smile tugged the edges of her mouth up.

"Right. Well, that's all cool then. I'd - better go get the car sorted, if Lestrade's fetching Mr Holmes now."

 

*

 

“That would be advisable,” Anthea agreed, amusement faintly coloring her tone.

She turned briskly, and strode out of the kitchen, heels clicking confidently. All her plans were falling into place, even the spur-of-the-moment one including Maguire.

Mm. Maguire. She made a note to have a nicer outfit than usual messengered to the office. It felt like a preening night; dress to impress and all that. Though frankly, Maguire seemed like she’d be impressed by Anthea showing up in a bin bag, so the preening was more for Anthea herself.

No matter. She would look absolutely breathtaking, as always.

She allowed herself the briefest triumphant smile before smoothing her face back into unapproachable professionalism. Mr. Holmes and Lestrade would be ready momentarily, and there was much to do today.

 


	12. Scamp

That afternoon, as the two men seated themselves in the car, there came a telltale heavy silence. Anthea had taken a cab ahead to the restaurant, citing that she needed to check on the reservation.

In reality, it was probably so she wouldn’t be caught in the fallout of the lecture Greg was absolutely certain he was about to receive.

“Before you say anything,” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, “in my defense, I was _really_ bored.”

He'd managed to restrain himself for the first hour and half of the meeting, but when it dragged on after lunch, well, he only had so much restraint. He had begun mocking the chancellor behind his back, making exaggerated versions of the man’s expressions over his shoulder at Mycroft.

Greg had spotted every time his employer had nearly lost his composure and marked it on his internal tally card. It had been completely worth it, and even now, attempting to defend himself, he was struggling to smother a naughty grin, eyes as bright as a schoolboy’s.

 

*

 

Something about that gesture - paws up, immediate surrender - made Mycroft want to pounce the man back onto the seat and hold him down until he wriggled.

"You are a _rogue,"_ he said, slamming the door, fighting tooth and nail not to smile. The brightness in the man's eyes was absolutely delicious. "An _utter_ rogue. I hope that's quite clear to you. _Mischief_ \- in the presence of _the chancellor,_ and in my _sight..._ I expected better, Lestrade. You're fortunate that my powers of concentration have been honed over a long, long series of completely unbearable chancellors, and I was able to maintain my composure. Otherwise, I would now be making a grievous apology to the man, while attempting to cover up your impish behaviour for you. You are a scamp."

As the car set off, Mycroft tried not to notice Maguire smirking the full width of her face in the windshield's reflection.

"I don't expect these sort of antics again," he told Lestrade, his tone severe, his eyes gleaming with delight. "You presented yourself to me as a paragon of professionalism while in fact you are a rascal. An unapologetic one at that."

It had been by far the most entertaining meeting with the chancellor of Mycroft's career. Normally he left these things sunken into a state of stupor, ready to curl under a restaurant table somewhere and weep with boredom. Instead, he found himself on the verge of a grin. He still wanted to leap at Lestrade like a playful fox cub; the prospect of dinner filled him with a happy, almost giddy relief.

"I hope you aren't expecting dessert," he added, finally surrendering to a smirk. "In no circumstances am I going to reward you for that devilish display of yours."

 

*

  

Greg’s head lowered over the course of his chastisement, but absolutely nothing in his body language could be read as ‘remorseful’ or ‘apologetic’ in the slightest.

He kept darting glances up, dark eyes dancing with delight, the edge of the grin still hovering on his mouth. If he were being entirely honest, he was a touch relieved that Mr. Holmes was so obviously amused by his antics; Greg _had_ tried to toe the line at least a little bit, never making a face in the middle of serious negotiations.

Just moderately serious ones.

He had always had a bit of a taste for mischief, especially quite dangerous mischief, and copying a chancellor behind his back sent a thrill of adrenaline through him like anything. It felt like -

Well. It felt good.

In the spirit of continuing to be honest (at least with himself), Greg had to admit that being lectured and being called a rascal was kinda working for him. Mycroft’s sharp tone, amusement belied by his eyes; the severity of his posture as he so _obviously_ attempted to keep his composure; even the slamming of the door caused a sneaky little thrill through Greg.

Alright, so being lectured was _definitely_ working for him.

At the mention of dessert, however, he began sniggering, hunched over. “No dessert, eh?” he asked, lifting his eyes with a cheeky grin.

He pulled out a box of Smarties from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and showed them to his employer. “What am I supposed to do with these, then?”

 

*

  

Mycroft's eyes ignited with delight. His mouth twisted; he flattened it at once, fixing his bodyguard with a glittering glare along the seat.

"Meditate on them," he said, "and on your own poor behaviour. And if we're very lucky, Lestrade, perhaps you'll emerge from the experience as a responsible adult."

He turned his gaze to the street passing by outside the window, crossing one leg over the other, still desperate to smile. It had been less than twenty-four hours since the man had scared him half to death, and they were once again as comfortable as if it had never happened.

Lestrade was just impossible to stay angry at. The man's heart was perfectly placed; he was, very simply, a good person.

Mycroft held out a hand, beckoning with two fingertips.

"Give me a Smartie this instant," he said, "and I will trust that you've learned your lesson."

After a moment, he added,

"An orange one, Lestrade. Don't you dare try to fob me off with a green."

 

*

 

Greg didn’t bothering smothering his grin. It was wide, and showed that the tip of his tongue was caught squarely between his front teeth. He was holding back a plethora of responses, both verbal and physical. He wanted to -

Well. He wanted to do a _lot_ of things. What he was _going_ to do would be pushing his luck anyway. Best not to think about the rest of what he wanted to do, which was liable to get him thrown from the car at best.

“A responsible adult, huh? I think you’re asking a lot of these Smarties,” he warned as he opened the box.

He shook a small pile out into his hand and picked carefully through. An orange one was selected, the rest tipped back into the box.

 _Just a little more fun before we go to dinner and have to pretend to be very serious men again_.

He picked up the candy between thumb and forefinger. He gazed at it scrutinizingly, peering at it and squinting as he turned it this way and that.

When he was satisfied by… whatever it was, he looked up and grinned again. His hand cocked back into a very obvious ‘about to throw’ motion. The trajectory was such that he could either place the candy into Mycroft’s waiting hand or ping him in the forehead. It all depended on the strength of the throw.

Greg waited like that, meeting Mycroft’s gaze with utter mischief in his eyes and a devilish smirk on his face. One brow was raised just slightly, highlighting the curve of his mouth. There was a very obvious challenge in every line of his body. It said: _do I dare?_

_Do you?_

 

*

 

_You are the most wicked creature on God's earth._

_And if you were gay, I would be snapping shut the privacy screen this instant, and Maguire could take the long way round to the restaurant._

Mycroft could not say it - except with his eyes, which almost burned in response to the challenge. He regarded Greg and the smartie for a moment, openly smirking, as he silently thanked the universe that Anthea was not here to witness these hijinks. Heaven only knew what she'd have thought. His assistant's professionalism was above suspicion; she would no doubt despair at this sort of behaviour.

But she was not here - and so Mycroft lifted his chin, slowly, and let his own eyebrow raise in response.

He opened his mouth a little. _Throw it. I dare you._

He thoroughly intended to catch it.

 

*

 

That look affected Greg a little (a lot) more than he particularly cared to admit. A shot of heat went right through him, and he exhaled hard. To anyone who might be listening, there was an edge of baritone growl within it.

_Christ, Lestrade. This is the most important shot of your life. Do not fuck this up._

He treated it as such, too; he breathed out, slowly, eyes narrowing as he centered himself. His eyes flickered, calculating.

His wrist cocked back just a little bit more, and he flicked the small piece of candy forward, aiming at his employer’s face.

He could only hope his aim was true, and it would land in the man’s mouth. Or, if his aim was poor, that Mr. Holmes had decent reflexes.

Greg said a little prayer in that half a moment, eyes locked on Mycroft’s mouth.

That, at least, was no great hardship.

 

*

 

Mycroft's smirk only grew as Lestrade made his careful preparations. He waited, utterly patient, without a flicker of concern in his face. He was well aware that Lestrade had now trapped himself in the delicious position of trying _not_ hitting his employer in the face with a smartie, and frankly, it would be worth getting hit just to enjoy seeing Lestrade deal with that.

Lestrade made the shot. Mycroft saw it leave his fingers.

He felt, too, the sudden jolt as the car struck a bump.

As it sailed towards Mycroft's face, Greg would be able to experience a good second's conviction that he _was_ about to hit Mycroft squarely on the nose with it - he would perhaps even catch the moment his employer went slightly cross-eyed, watching it approach at an angle he hadn't anticipated.

Mycroft's gaze then sharpened, and he lunged. He snapped the thing out of the air like a bird of prey; it vanished in a heartbeat.

He then sat back, coolly chewing his prize.

With a flash of his tongue across his lower lip, he said, "Thank you."

 

*

 

 _Oh fuck. I’m going to die. I’m going to hit Mr. Holmes in the face and I’m going to die._ Greg believed this with all of his heart as he felt the projectile leave his fingers at the wrong angle. _Maguire, if I survive this, I’m going to kill you_. _Even if it’s not your fault. Someone has to die for this._

And then Mycroft caught it, displaying amazing reflexes and prowess, and Greg was going to die for an entirely different reason.

The quiet clack of Mycroft’s teeth as he caught the smartie was something Greg was going to remember for a long, _long_ time.

_I’m dead. I’ve died. I’m dead, and I’ve gone to heaven. Jinx ran us into a bus or something and I’ve died. That much elegance in one man should be illegal._

And then - oh, _God_ \- that flash of tongue. He wanted nothing more than to fling himself forward and snog the other man senseless. He wanted to press them together, chase that taste of confectionery, rumple the somehow-still-perfectly-pressed suit.

What he did was settle back and cross his legs, smirking a little to try and cover up his suddenly desperate desire. He could only hope that the darkened interior of the car would cover his flushed cheeks and no doubt dilated pupils. “Happy to be of service, sir,” he said cheekily, voice rough.

 

* * *

 

It was only a short journey to the restaurant - fortunate, as Mycroft was starving. He was also rather looking forward to the sight of Lestrade by candlelight, as if eating sweets tossed casually from the man's hand wasn't enough today.

As they pulled up outside, Jinx got out to hold the door for them. In the time they'd been in the meeting, she'd altered her outfit slightly - added a waistcoat and a skinny grey tie, removed the black suit jacket to show French cuffs with cufflinks. She kept her eyes down as Mr Holmes exited the car, keeping her expression carefully under wraps.

As Greg followed him, she caught the bodyguard's eye. Humour bubbled through her face - humour, and something curiously like nerves.

"Gonna park up," she told him, in undertones. "Have a good night. His turn to feed _you_ something, huh?"

 

*

 

 _In my dreams, maybe_ , Greg thought wryly. He nudged Jinx slightly, smirking. “Not likely.”

He followed Mycroft into the restaurant, holding in a whistle. Anthea had outdone herself in this choice: low lighting shrouded the establishment in twilight and highlighted the pools of candlelight at every table, faint piano music drifted through the air, and the unmistakable murmur of French could be heard all around.

It made him remember, just for a moment, dinner with his paternal grandparents, Memere and Pepere Lestrade. Being young and clumsy, but trusted with the good china; speaking only French during dinner at their house, just like this - quiet and cosy and intimate. It brought a soft smile to his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners.

Intimate. Christ. He adjusted his tie slightly as they were led to a table, tucked away from most of the other patrons. How could a situation be simultaneously your deepest fantasy and your worst nightmare?

Out of habit, he pulled out Mr. Holmes’ chair for him, accidentally cutting off their young server.

 

*

 

Mycroft had barely noticed the server's existence. As he passed Lestrade, to avoid bumping into him, he laid a hand quietly on his bodyguard's back and stepped around him.

"Thank you," he murmured, took a seat, and retrieved the wine list from the centre of the table.

Flipping it open, he cast his eye coolly along the selection as Greg sat down. He chose a mid-priced white for them to begin with, and accepted a menu from the server.

It wasn't the first time Greg had dined out in Mycroft's presence - there'd been a few occasions where a meeting had been held in a restaurant over dinner, and bodyguards were seated casually at the table. Mycroft had noted, with some delight, that the rest of his MI6 colleagues hadn't been quite so fortunate in their acquisition of new bodyguards - a lot of frowning bald men, scowling at their small portions of gourmet food. While not at all permitted to speak, Greg had always behaved himself impeccably on these occasions. He'd received more than one envious glance, too - only a few of them from Mycroft.

It would be nice, just the two of them.

"As ever," Mycroft said, as the server went to retrieve their wine, and give them time to browse the menu, "order what you wish. This is considered a living expense."

His eyes glittered in the low light.

"Except for dessert," he added, "which of course you may not have."

 

*

 

That one small touch affected Greg more than was probably reasonable, and he had to fight down a shiver as he sat and looked over the menu. He appreciated that the menu was in both languages; it would help him not embarrass himself when the time came to order.

His eyes flicked up from the menu at Mr. Holmes’ final sentence and caught the glitter in his eyes.

It felt like someone had punched him in the gut, but in a good way. _God help me._ He took a moment to be grateful that he was already sitting, since his knees would have almost certainly given out in that moment.

A smirk grew on his lips as he decided to push his luck yet again. “ _How good do I have to be to earn dessert back, then?_ ” he questioned, his French a touch rusty but perfectly serviceable.

Greg wasn’t sure whether or not he was upset over the fact that everything sounded more flirtatious in French. Probably glad, he decided; at least if his intentions were questioned he could claim that the Romance language made everything sound, well, romantic. Not his fault.

The lowering of his voice and half-lidding of his eyes, accompanied by a coy head tilt, were definitely his fault.

 

*

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the switch to French, the corner of his mouth lifting. Faultless in his accent, and without a pause, he replied,

_"Supremely. Without a flaw. Though I suspect this will be beyond you; in twenty-four hours, you've made an attempt on my life and then behaved scandalously towards me in my duties. I have few hopes for your improvement, Lestrade."_

The server arrived with their wine. As she poured it, Mycroft contented himself with the menu, not meeting Greg's eyes. He had to try rather hard to keep his foot from seeking Greg's beneath the table. The urge to touch, to play, was overwhelming.

He requested the Dorset crab to start, hand-dived sea scallops and Anjou pigeon served with wild garlic and chickpeas to follow. The server took his order with a gracious nod, and turned her eyes to Greg.

"For you, sir?" she asked.

Mycroft watched across the table, smiling quietly as Greg chose his food. He couldn't stop _looking_ at the man. Part of him wished, desperately, that things could be different - that this could be a liaison of some sort, and Lestrade not an employee but a friend; and yet part of him found a curious, deep comfort in the knowledge that Lestrade would be with him tomorrow, by his side from dawn until dusk, no matter what.

It was strangely freeing.

This moment didn't have the nervousness of a date. The connection between them was forged in legal terms, and sanctified by the bonds of black ink. It wasn't fragile. It couldn't be severed by a single unsatisfactory evening. No matter if he was nervous, or if Lestrade tried to kill him - no matter if they spent the day teasing each other furiously - no matter what they talked about, no matter if they drank too much, no matter what indiscretions were committed, Lestrade would be here.

Taking up his wine glass, with an elegant sip, Mycroft reflected that he was deeply fortunate.

 

*

 

Oh, right, the man across the table from him was a master of gaining the upper hand. Greg had nearly forgotten.

He gripped the menu  more tightly than necessary, fighting to retain his composure. Feeling only a little bad, he turned one of his more charming grins on the server as he requested seasonal vegetables to begin with, dry aged beef to follow, and:

“Lemon and mint souffle, please.”

She nodded and took down his choices, turning briskly on her heel to hide the slight blush that had bloomed on her cheeks. She headed off to put in their order.

Greg turned back with a smirk and picked up his wineglass. “ _I can be good,”_ he purred. The promise curled through his words, and he tilted the glass forward, offering to touch it to Mycroft’s.

Flirting like this (for it was flirting, there could be no other term for it) felt like flying, or maybe falling. His heart was in his throat, eyes bright with adrenaline and, yes, lust, though he was fighting hard to hide it.

He didn’t care. Fuck it, the worst thing that could happen was that he’d be reprimanded, be reminded of his place, and that would be that.

For now, he would savor good wine, good music, and the attention of a wonderful man.

 


	13. Much-Valued

As their glasses met, Mycroft felt the gentle ring of sound pass through his heart. He took a drink, content, and let the ambience overcome him for a moment - somewhere calming and beautiful at the end of a long day, the quiet murmur of conversation around them, the piano music somewhere across the restaurant.

It was all rather wonderful.

He met Lestrade's gaze, gave a quiet smile, and said,

"I imagine you'd like an opportunity to spend time with your family soon. They must miss you."

 

*

 

At the mention of family, Greg smiled fondly. He sipped at the wine for a moment, nodding. “Yeah. It would be nice,” he admitted, finger playing up and down the stem of the glass unconsciously.

“I think the kiddos get out of school soon. Melody said something about end of term, I think?” He shook his head. “Shannon’s fine, she loves school, but Adrienne is behind on her assignments. Thinks she has better things to do.”

He hummed and smiled wryly. “I bet her mum wouldn’t be opposed to bribing the little punk with some Uncle Greg time in exchange for doing her schoolwork. And of course for Shannon it would be a reward.”

The edge of his mouth twitched. “Can’t really take them for the weekend though, can I?” It was a rhetorical question, tinged with sadness. This was Greg’s dream job, absolutely, but it had come with sacrifices.

He very much doubted Mr. Holmes wanted to host two eight year olds for a weekend. He could figure something else out, though; perhaps a day trip to a museum, or some time at the park.

 

*

 

Mycroft listened in contented quiet, just enjoying the man's fond thoughts of his family. It was something he'd never had the pleasure of. Nieces and nephews were no longer a possibility, and his extended family were almost as horrendous as his immediate one.

After a quiet drink, he said,

"If you wished for a weekend to visit them, and stay, it could be arranged... I believe the agency said they could arrange a ‘courtesy guard’ to cover your absence or illness. Not something they can do often, I imagine, but perhaps when the renovations to the house are complete... when you can feel more secure, leaving me in the hands of a lesser man."

His eyes sparkled, mouth curving. He knew that Lestrade took pride in his work. The man was supremely qualified, and very dedicated - and aware of his own skills. Mycroft imagined the prospect of another bodyguard taking temporary charge of Mycroft's safety wouldn’t please Lestrade in the least.

 

*

 

Greg’s nose wrinkled with distaste at the thought. He took a small sip of wine in a half-hearted attempt to cover it. “I suppose,” he said, sounding unconvinced.

He tilted his head, feeling honest. “Wouldn’t be much fun for the kids, though, having their Uncle Greg distracted with thoughts of his boss all the time.” His eyes met Mycroft’s briefly thought the candlelight.

‘Thoughts’ carried maybe just a _touch_ more weight than the rest of his words.

He leaned back in his chair. “Maybe someday,” he conceded. His head tilted back and he surveyed his employer, eyes hooded. “I’d feel better about it if you had some self-defense lessons under your belt, though. If I knew you could fight dirty.” Again, the slightest hint of emphasis, and his finger stroked up the stem of the glass.

Fuck, this could all easily come crashing down around his head if he wasn’t careful, if he pushed too hard or went too far.

He wasn’t sure he cared.

 

*

 

_You would think about me, while you're with them._

_Worry about me._

_God alive._

Perfectly calm on the surface, Mycroft's heart thundered against his ribs. The way Lestrade looked at him - the way he stroked his glass - the way he spoke to Mycroft.

It felt like affection.

It felt like closeness.

Mycroft knew, somewhere in the back of his heart, that it wasn't. He knew Lestrade had probably been this protective of his other clients. He knew it was professional honour that compelled the man to care so diligently for his safety, and he knew - most painfully of all - that someday, there would be somebody else. Some other client. Some other recipient of care.

Lestrade wasn't going to protect him all his life. Things didn't work that way - especially for men like him.

But God almighty, it was wonderful to pretend for a while.

Mycroft didn't believe he'd ever be married. How could he meet and bond with someone, when his career demanded so much of his time? - when any casual acquaintance could be a foreign spy; when he couldn't bear the thought of exposing his inner self like that, over and over to a series of strangers over dinner; when he was quite so selective, so hard to please, so easy to annoy; when, by his very nature, he disliked unfamiliar people intensely, and took a great deal of time even to relax, let alone trust someone. Mycroft imagined himself growing old in quiet peace with trusted staff around him, paid well enough to care properly for him, knowing that their diligence would likely be rewarded in a will at some point.

But Lestrade would age at the rate that he did.

No eighty-year-old employed an eighty-year-old bodyguard, just to keep him company and come to dinner.

_God help me, why am I thinking about this?_

_He'll stay a while... I should be happy with that. Then he'll marry, someday - marry and settle. Some remarkable woman._

_At least I have him to myself for now._

_And then memories will do._

_Memories of the only man who ever dared to tease me._

As Mycroft returned to the present moment, dazed, he caught the tail-end of a comment about self-defence lessons. It pulled a smile across his lips, dispelling the touch of discomfort that had briefly crossed his eyes.

"More of a lover than a fighter," he remarked, with a darkened glance at Lestrade that suggested he didn't consider himself either. "Even in my younger days, I tried to keep the... more _active_ parts of service to a minimum. I fear you'd have your work cut out for you."

He raised an eyebrow, tipped back a rather generous mouthful of wine, and added,

"I'm willing, of course - please don't now assault me to demonstrate the necessity for it - but I can only hope you're prepared to be patient."

 

*

 

 _More of a lover than a fighter. God help me, man. You will be the death of me._ It took Greg - much more effort than it should have to keep his leg from stretching out and brushing against his employer’s, to keep his hands on the tablecloth, to keep terms of endearment like ‘gorgeous’ out of even his thoughts.

Even reminding himself of his position, of _their_ positions, didn’t help. Employer and employee; it didn’t feel like that. Had never really felt like that, to be frank. Greg was an open book, for the most part, and -

Well, it seemed he had somehow managed to get the enigma of Mycroft Holmes to demystify itself, a little. Get under his skin, just a little bit. Made a place for himself in Mycroft’s life.

But oh, how badly Greg wanted to have a different place, in his heart of hearts. How much he wanted to reach out and take the man’s long, elegant hand, lace their fingers together and admire the difference.

It had been far too long since Greg had had that kind of intimacy. Since that one disaster (he shied away from thinking about it; he did not need to ruin this perfect night) relationships had never really gone right for him, even though he had managed a marriage after. Perhaps something essential in him had broken.

Perhaps he was simply, fundamentally, broken.

If that were true, it was okay, for the most part. Greg was happy. He was proud of his job, of the work he did. He was proud of his sister and her family. He had camaraderie with some of his co-workers, and a decent working relationship with his supervisor.

But oh, to have _this_ before him. The tantalizing thought of more with the posh, nearly perfect man across from him, smirking and glowing in the candlelight; it made Greg’s head swim and his heart clench.

Because he could never have it. Not even if things were different. He was - not the kind of person that could stand at the side of someone like Mycroft Holmes.

Greg thanked his lucky stars that his brain could work on autopilot, even during a bit of a brooding session. His mouth widened into a grin, and he heard himself say, “Damn, and I was so looking forward to tackling you on your way to the loo.”

 _What the fuck did I say that for?_ He questioned himself, bewildered. A frantic review of the last few seconds of conversation revealed that it had been an appropriate comment, if a cheeky one.

He relaxed. He could deal with cheeky. The smile gentled, though, and his expression softened. “Not to worry, Mr. Holmes,” he said reassuringly. “I’ve heaps of patience. It’ll be fine.” _You’re safe with me._

 _I’ll take care of you_.

 

*

 

Something about the candlelight - the relief of feeling comfortable in his protector's presence again - made playfulness seem easy and safe. Mycroft caught himself mirroring Lestrade's grin, and couldn't bring himself to close it away. The expression took five years off his face in an instant.

He swirled his glass, took another drink and said,

"If someone had told me a month ago that I'd permit my new bodyguard to subject me to such astonishing levels of cheek - in _public,_ no less - I don't think I'd have believed them, Lestrade."

He smiled, quietly rubbing his lower lip between his teeth for a moment.

"I was - annoyed," he confessed, "when my superiors first told me... _very_ annoyed. A mandatory security officer, to live in my home... to loom over me, wherever I went. I was rather incensed to tell the truth. When I agreed to meet you, I hoped that you'd at least be tolerable..."

He held something in his mouth a moment, watching Greg with care.

"Now, I - rather hope that you're happy in my service. That you'd tell me, if there were anything I could do to make you more so."

 

*

 

Greg smiled a little, and for all his easy, open honesty, this one was a little more sincere than most. “I am happy,” he said quietly. “Very happy.”

_What could you do to make me more happy? Take me to bed. Let me hold you. Let me see you unguarded - more so. Let me in._

That was not a wise thing to say, so he swallowed it down with a mouthful of wine.

He took a breath, and said something that was probably also unwise, but less likely to result in him being thrown out on his arse. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time, actually. When Sue - Mrs. Lehrmann - showed me the assignment, I was… expecting to have to be on my best behavior all day, every day.”

He smiled slyly, inviting his employer in on the ridiculousness of that worry. “Clearly that hasn’t happened.”

The corner of his mouth got a chewing as he rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers. “If - I was asked,” he said, staring at the table, suddenly afraid of his own words and not wanting to watch Mycroft’s reaction to them, “how I felt about this job, I would say it’s my dream job. This is - everything I ever wanted. Everything I never knew I wanted, or could hope to have.”

Greg set the glass down and spread his hands on the tablecloth. Rough, work-hardened, criss-crossed with scars. They made a startling contrast against the fine linen. “I never expected to - be in this kind of position,” he said, daring to look up. “That my life would ever look like this. I still wake up sometimes, scared that it’s a dream. But… it never is.” He smiled softly. “I don’t think I can ever express the full depth of my gratitude, Mr. Holmes. I don’t have the words.”

Deep breath, Lestrade. Courage. “There is… one thing,” he admitted. “A - bit of a large favor, I know, and you’re - free to tell me to -” He caught himself, one does not say ‘piss off’ in a fancy French restaurant, “- drop it, but…”

His hands tensed where they lay on the tablecloth. “Would you... consider meeting my family?” he asked, dropping his gaze back down to the table. “The twins, mostly. I can’t-- I can’t, in good conscience, ask for a weekend off. It wouldn’t be fair to them; I’d be a mess. But if I could have them with me - just for a day, even, when you’re working from home - it would mean a lot - they’re growing up so _fast_ -”

He cut himself off with another drink of wine, aware he was beginning to babble. His chest was tight with sudden anxiety and unexpected warmth prickled at his eyes. _Pull it together, Lestrade._

 

*

 

The man's affection for his nieces was desperately moving. Mycroft hadn't the faintest clue what he would say to small children - how he would feel, knowing they were in his house - but he knew what he could see on Lestrade's face.

And he knew he wanted the man to stay.

If Lestrade was happy, he would stay longer. An employer who made a man choose between his job and his family was not an employer to be cherished. Mycroft didn't want to be that choice. He wanted it to be easy for Greg to stay, hard for him to leave.

It was certainly an unusual request - but it made Mycroft's heart tighten, realising Lestrade felt comfortable enough to make it.

That had to stand for something.

He took a moment more to be certain, wanting his answer to be a full one. He then said,

"Certain parts of the house would be off limits - simply as a matter of security. I'd need to be able to work, and not be disturbed. But, as a request from a much-valued member of my household... I believe it could be accommodated."

He gave a small smile, watching Lestrade's face.

"As you've seen when I work at home, I require very little supervision from you - if any. We can class those as your rest days, if you wish. I'm happy for you to have your family visit, so long as I know in advance." He tilted his head, holding Greg's gaze. "And, of course, that I'm still able to work."

 

*

 

Relief and gratitude crashed through Greg, leaving him breathless and grinning with it. Warmth flooded him, too, at _much-valued_.

Mr. Holmes had said yes. With stipulations, of course; Greg wasn’t about to let the kids have run of the house or be nuisances to anyone but him, anyway.

He took a moment to catch his breath, aware that he was grinning like a fool. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“That - yeah, of course. Of course. They’re good kids, easy to entertain. You won’t hear a peep from them while you’re working, promise.”

His breath caught in his chest again as he imagined it, having the twins for the day at - well, his home, technically, at least for now. They would love it to pieces, especially if Jinx picked them up and brought them home.

“Thank you,” Greg said, catching his employer’s gaze. His voice was rough with emotion. “I - thank you.” He wanted to reach across, take the other man’s hand, and -

Emboldened by a little too much wine and riding high on giddiness, he did. It was a brief touch; he covered the long fingers with his own and squeezed, just once, before returning his hand to his own side of the table. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart gave a delightfully happy skip at the small squeeze. He managed, by some miracle, to keep the full extent of the reaction off his face. It was close, though. He settled for a crumpled, happy smile, rather pink, and took a moment to pull himself back together.

"Quite alright, Lestrade." If the first few occasions went well, he might let the children stay overnight - there were certainly enough rooms in the other wing, and God knew it would make Lestrade happy. Mycroft filed the thought away as something to keep, watching the man fondly through the candlelight a moment. "I'll send you a copy of my schedule for the next few weeks... if you see a day that suits, let me know. Jessamine will be happy to transport, I'm sure."

 _Dear lord, what have I gotten myself in for?_ It crossed Mycroft's mind briefly that he was a pushover, and he'd be regretting his weakness to Lestrade when his Skype calls were interrupted by screaming children hurling antiques at each other.

But he supposed that a chance could be given.

If it worked well, Lestrade would have a better working situation than 99% of security professionals.

Their server arrived with their starters.

 

*

 

“Thanks,” Greg said, grinning at the server. He turned the grin on Mycroft. “That sounds great. Thank you.”

Something warm and happy had settled in his abdomen, fizzing gently in his stomach. The idea of seeing Shannon and Adrienne, perhaps; or the fact that Mr. Holmes was willing to give this a shot.

If they started acting like devils, he could always tie them to a tree, he mused, digging in to his appetizer. _Again_.

 


	14. Cover

_Should be an interesting evening._

Jinx had parked, pocketed the keys of the Jag, then taken herself down an alley beside the restaurant to smoke. It wasn't a habit she fell into often - but when she needed it, she needed it.

_At least we can talk about them flinging smarties for each other to catch..._

Lestrade would forgive her in time for purposely bumping the car. He'd probably forgotten already. Too busy on his cosy candle-lit date... Mr Holmes had looked like the cat who'd got the cream as he stepped out of the car.

As she sparked up, Jinx wondered if anyone in the restaurant would even realise they were client and bodyguard. Anyone with sense would guess they'd been married three years or so, still feverishly fucking each other's brains out at every possible opportunity.

So far, the carefully-concealed monitoring equipment in Mr Holmes's bedroom hadn't registered anyone entering it furtively at night. She knew the devices were working - she'd stolen a few moments the previous week to check the one beneath the carpet, just inside the door. It was fine. It still informed her every night when Mr Holmes had shut himself in, and it hadn't woken her up to warn her that someone else was quietly joining him.

So Lestrade hadn't been paying their employer any nocturnal visits.

Yet.

It was going to happen.

That much was fucking obvious.

And frankly, it would be to everyone's advantage.

Lestrade was already taking top-level care of Mr Holmes - and when the man moved onto sleeping in Mycroft's room with him, Jinx would become almost startlingly irrelevant.

She'd been installed in Mr Holmes's household six years ago now, ever since he'd announced to the higher-ups that he was moving out of London. He'd thought they'd allow him just to slink off, unguarded, to a huge old manor in the middle of nowhere. Security options had been proposed to him. Holmes had rejected them all, told them airily that he'd have alarms fitted, then considered the matter dealt with. The man was as stubborn as an ox when he wanted to be. He didn't care to bend to any will but his own.

And so it had been far easier just to go behind his back.

When he requested a full-time driver to assist with his move out of London, the higher-ups must have laughed at the chance he'd unwittingly given them.

Installing his new covert security agent - in the disguise of military-trained driver Lance Corporal Jessamine Maguire - had been as easy as arranging the paperwork.

Holmes hadn't even interviewed her personally - why would he? So long as she could drive him around, and not crash the car, it was all that he'd want. Jinx had entered Mr Holmes's household via half an hour's meeting with Anthea - who also had no clue as to her actual purpose.

They'd let her in without a blink: friendly, chirpy, sometimes clumsy, inoffensive Jessamine Maguire.

She'd been dormant in the house ever since.

Life was quiet and easy on the estate; little ever changed. Mr Holmes was a man of caution and routine, whose enemies were far more likely to make snide comments at him in a corridor than put a knife through his guts. His days of fieldwork and firearms were long behind him, and he'd become one of those rare creatures indeed: an agent who lived to tell the tale and grow old in comfort.

Kovácic's murder had people worried, though.

Jinx been hauled up in front of Mr Holmes's direct superiors. She'd been questioned for hours about the house - his life - her observations - had there been _any attempt?_ And all she'd been able to tell them was, _no._ Nobody had been near the house. Nobody had been following the car. Nobody had even come for a look at Mycroft - not yet. Jinx knew it like she knew her own name. The higher-ups admitted they'd had no noise from online traffic, no other indication that Mycroft was in imminent danger.

But _Kovácic_ _._

All the signs said that signs should be there.

They'd decided on a visible deterrent, to supplement Jinx's safeguarding - someone to stand at Holmes's side, almost day and night, until they could be certain they were mistaken about Kovácic.

As it was, Lestrade was turning out to be the best damn decision they'd ever made.

Mr Holmes had taken to the man like a dream. Lestrade would no sooner let him come to harm than throw himself off the roof. Jinx had breathed easy almost as soon as she'd met him. The man was honest and open and easy, good at his job, proud of doing it well, not prepared to fail. She couldn't have asked for someone better.

_Fun last night, though._

Jinx almost smiled as she thought about it, drawing smoke into her lungs, and blowing it in a neat column towards the roof.

She'd spotted Lestrade on camera straightaway, circling the perimeter of the house. She'd wondered what he was doing, and watched as he slipped back in through a window. Her heart had stopped when he'd started sneaking up behind Mr Holmes. She'd been on the other side of the house, no more able to get there in time than suddenly sprout wings. She'd been helpless just to watch, gripping the edge of the security monitor white-knuckled, praying this wasn't what it fucking looked like. All Lestrade's security checks had come clean. _All_ of them. Some things that maybe Mr Holmes would've liked to know before he employed Lestrade, but the man's heart was right there on his sleeve. He was good to the bone. Anyone could see it.

He _couldn't_ be a plant. He just _couldn't_ be.

Then she'd realised what the game was - and thank Christ.

A quick check on their ensuing tiff in the office to make sure he wasn't _actually_ killing Mr Holmes - or, that Mr Holmes was _actually_ killing him - and she'd been happy to leave them to it.

In truth, Lestrade's prank was a godsend. She'd been trying to figure out how to get Mr Holmes to take a panic alarm for years. There was no way she could do it without blowing her cover.

_If only I'd had a go at murdering him._

A panic button had now been ordered. Lestrade would be sneaking into Mr Holmes's room at night in a matter of weeks, if not days - if not hours. Jinx's cover was more intact than ever. Things were good.

And then... there was Anthea.

Jinx pushed her tongue across her teeth, and took a drag on her cigarette.

Anthea had always been the tricky one. Mr Holmes had never given a second thought to the true nature of his driver. It was fine; it was meant to be that way.

Anthea was a different matter.

She had a way of guarding almost everything she knew, and something in her manner that suggested she was aware of far more than you could suspect. It was unnerving at times. At several points over the last six years, Jinx had started to wonder if Anthea was onto her - if she'd realised there was more to Mr Holmes's cheeky driver than met the eye.

It didn't look like it, though.

Anthea would have confronted her, if there were suspicions. The woman adored Mr Holmes - that much was beyond doubt. She knew every facet of his life. She knew every tiny thing that ever happened in his orbit.

She wouldn't have let Jinx sit there in his vicinity, unquestioned, if she suspected the truth.

She loved the man too much for that.

Leaning back against the grubby bricks, Jinx rolled the cigarette from one corner of her lower lip to the other, closing her eyes. This evening was going to require some careful acting, and some careful thinking. If Anthea was lining her up as a possible source of recreational sex, it put Jinx in a delicate position - of more than one variety.

To say no, and risk Anthea taking a serious dislike to her?

Or to say yes, and risk Anthea getting close enough to discover some things she really shouldn't?

With, of course, the added complication that Anthea was hot as hell, so posh it made Jinx's mouth water a little, and clearly a spectacular screw. The girl went through lovers like most people went through boxes of cereal, but Jinx couldn't blame her. She'd have offered up her services to Anthea years ago, if she hadn't had a job to do and a cover to keep.

As she smoked, Jinx was reconciling herself to the fact she might well have to let Anthea fuck her senseless tonight - to stop her cover being blown, of course. For the good of Mr Holmes's security, and therefore the British nation.

There was a chance this night was going to end in two bedrooms - in one wing, Mr Holmes in the arms of his protective, playful Lestrade; in the other, 'Jessamine Maguire' and the woman that nobody dared to disappoint.

Crushing out her cigarette against the wall, Jinx blew out a last lungful of smoke. She adjusted her tie to make it a little more scruffy, relaxed her face into the nervous version of the easy smile she'd worn for six years now, and reminded herself she'd passed advance-level interrogation training.

She could pass being seduced by a beautiful woman.

 

*

 

The only sign that Anthea was feeling anything but mild boredom was the subtle, steady _click, click_ of one manicured nail on the tablecloth. Her table was, of course, perfectly positioned to be able to see both Mr. Holmes’ table and the door, the better to keep an eye on both her quarries.

 _What a day_ . She shifted in her seat, enjoying the feel of her ( _very_ expensive) hose against her skin. The glances she gathered as the hem of her black cocktail dress edged up her thigh didn’t hurt, either.

The glances turned into small stares as she crossed one leg over the other, edge of the dress _just_ high enough that one could catch a hint of lace.

 _What a day_ , she thought to herself again. It had begun with running interference between Lestrade and Mr. Holmes, and the theme had only repeated itself throughout the day.

She closed her eyes briefly, mouth pressing into a line for just a moment, as she recalled the events of the day. So many minor emergencies to be fielded and dealt with, shuffled off before they could ever cross Mr. Holmes’ desk, so many blithe idiots to shepherd and redirect. Anthea prided herself on her whip-crack efficiency and ability to terrorize or seduce as needed, but God in Heaven it could be tiring sometimes.

Especially when one was giving their employer space to be with his intended. Anyone with eyes could see that they were pining for each other, and frankly she was glad of it.

Anthea wanted what was best for Mr. Holmes, and that was obviously Lestrade. That was why she had selected him in the first place, after all. Only the best for Mr. Holmes.

Which brought her back to Maguire. Her eyes flicked to the door, and a faint smile curled the corner of her mouth as she waited for the young woman. Lance Corporal Jessamine Maguire. Impeccable military service, spotless driving record, clean background checks. Exactly what Mr. Holmes had needed.

And now, Anthea found herself wondering if the woman could be a bit of what she, herself, needed too. It had been some time since she had taken a woman to her bed, simply because most of the women she crossed paths with were eminently unsuited to something casual; they were all looking for _relationships_ , long term or short term.

Anthea did not _do_ relationships. She did casual acquaintanceships, she did long-term fuck buddies, but _dating_ was not a word in her vocabulary.

Hopefully Maguire could be convinced to join her in bed for at least one night (preferably more, the woman _was_ very attractive) without expectations.

A sly smile. That was part of why she had taken the cab: to get her metaphorical armor on.

A new set of lingerie and hose. Stunning, yet simple, black silk pumps. Her favorite little black dress, one which highlighted her delicate collarbones and shoulders (and her breasts, and her waist, and her hips, and her legs…).

Her makeup: perfect. A little sultry, a little coy. Her hair: sleek, but voluminous, hinting at _spread across the pillow_ and _held in a fist_.

Her jewelry: stunning. All draping chains and delicate wirework, subtle flashes of gems winking in the candlelight. She had made the necklace and earrings herself; one of her few hobbies. The one ring on her hand, a delicate silver band on the middle finger of her right hand, had been a gift from her mother. The very last birthday gift she had ever received from her parents.

Anthea’s head tilted and she smiled, just a little, as she spied the door opening and the tell-tale flash of blonde hair. _There you are._

 

*

 

_Oh Jesus._

Even as Jinx's face made nervous inquiries of the maître d', pretending she hadn't spotted Anthea already, and asking if he could point her to the second of two tables booked under 'Holmes', her brain ran at full speed behind the facade.

They were absolutely, definitely, with utter certainty, going to fuck tonight - and there was nothing she could do about it now.

How the hell was she supposed to fuck while in character? And fuck _Anthea,_ too? Anthea, who was now sitting there in that slinky black dress, with a look in her eye like she was going to eat Jinx alive. This was going to be the theatrical performance of a lifetime.

Maybe the answer was just to drink, she thought, and hope Lestrade stayed sober enough to deal with any assassins in the night. He'd probably be spending the greater part of it serving at Mr Holmes's pleasure, anyway. He could take the watch for once.

Jinx certainly wouldn't be capable of standing guard.

The maître d' showed her across the dining area. She did a good job of pretending to trip slightly as he led her down a short set of steps, so she could be grinning with embarrassment as she got to the table.

"Alright?" she said, and took a seat, scraping it in and nervously adjusting her pre-scruffed tie. "Sorry - took a minute getting parked. And there was a cute little Continental GT in the spot next to us. Had to have a nosy. Think Mr Holmes'd throw up a kidney before he let me ship him around in a convertible, but... they're pretty things..."

She reached for her water glass and took a sizeable gulp, glancing around.

She'd clocked Mr Holmes and Lestrade as soon as she'd entered the restaurant - but as she pretended to spot them for the first time, she turned her face quickly away.

"Oops. Cool. Everything okay so far?" she asked, with a timid flash of her round green eyes. "No more attempted murder or anything?"

 

*

 

Anthea tucked a hand under her chin, surveying Maguire with a small smile. _Adorable creature._ “Everything is proceeding according to plan,” she said easily. “And no. No further murder attempts.”

She leaned forward and slid a menu across the table with one finger. “I hope you don’t mind I ordered wine.” _I was waiting_ went unsaid. “It should go with most everything on the menu. Of course, if you find it unsatisfactory, I can always order something else.”

A calculated smile. “Whatever you wish.”

The purr in her voice was automatic, as automatic as the head tilt that caught her features in the candlelight and flashed fire in her jewelry. She was on an obvious mission, a mission that was second nature at this point.

Strangely, though, seduction wasn’t the _only_ aim of the evening. Anthea truly did simply… want to spend a little more time with Maguire. The young woman gave off an air of charming bubbliness, friendly and perky and maybe a touch air-headed.

But Anthea gave off airs of her own, and they were often constructs. Shades of the truth. And the glimpses she had caught over the years of Maguire’s truths fascinated her. Perhaps her years of service to Mr. Holmes had caused his penchant for puzzles to rub off on her.

Whatever it was, she wanted Maguire. And she would have her.

She lifted her wineglass and took a delicate sip, eyeing the woman across the table. “Whatever you wish,” she repeated, eyes flicking to the menu. A perk of being Mr. Holmes’ employee: prices were essentially inconsequential.

 

*

 

Jinx gave a slightly guilty grin. "Probably won't do gammon, egg and chips, will they?" she said, flipping the menu open and scanning down the list. Her brow furrowed, seemingly working out some of the knottier French terms.

"Have you picked what you're having?" she asked, glancing across the table.

_Except me, obviously._

 

*

 

Anthea hummed in the back of her throat at the mention of gammon, egg and chips. Slightly dismissive, slightly amused.

“Yes, I have,” she said easily, uncrossing and recrossing her legs in the opposite direction. “The sea bass, to start with. Then the lobster and the veal.”

She smiled delicately, eyes dancing with promise. “And I thought we might share the Parisian chocolate, if you’re amenable. I find it to be such a good,” slight pause, “conclusion to the meal.” She said ‘conclusion’ like she meant ‘climax’.

Anthea’s heart raced in her chest. It had been too long since she had really had the opportunity to seduce anyone; most people she took to bed now were there at a single word from her. No challenge whatsoever.

Of course, there probably wasn’t _quite_ so much effort needed here: she had seen and felt Maguire’s eyes on her for a long time. But she was having fun, and if she ran the risk of stunning the other woman into uselessness, so be it.

 

*

 

The MI5 agent sitting across from Anthea was now starting to feel rather sorry for the person known as Jessamine Maguire. Anthea was going to destroy the poor girl, and there was no hope left for her whatsoever. After six years of living daily life as her, the chirpy driver had come to feel like a close friend - perhaps even a sibling - a character that her handler could slip in and slip out of at will, and it was a curious experience to observe that persona being so artfully and shamelessly seduced. Anthea really had turned the blasters on full; it would be wildly easy to let Jessamine fall to the onslaught.

Then a flicker of mischief crossed the back of Jinx's mind - and she began to wonder.

_How far can I make her push this?_

It was a dangerous thought. Anthea was fire, and playing with her was the dumbest of dumb ideas. Jinx had a job to do - a job she'd done well for six years now - and the last thing she needed was to fuck it up by having some fun. Really, the thing to do was let Jessamine roll over and take it. Let Anthea have whatever she wanted, and consider it a requisite part of the job. MI5 agents had been forced to do far less enjoyable things in the course of their duties.

Holy shit, the woman was gorgeous though.

And she was clearly enjoying it so much - the easy kill.

She hadn't any idea that, beneath the heart-shaped face with the green eyes and the easy grin, her quarry was a far more clever and predatory creature than she knew.

And Jinx rather wanted to play.

"Sure," the hapless driver said on her behalf, eyes bright. "I'm good for chocolate. Who isn't?" She took another drink of water, glancing sideways across the room. "Think I'm the commonest person here," she said, sheepish. "Surprised you've not been asked to feed me in the kitchen..."

_Go on, darlin'. Seduce me._

_Show me what it's like when you really try._

 

*

 

Anthea’s finger circled the rim of her wineglass gently, the crystal ringing softly under the touch of her fingertip. It was an easy, deft motion, one she hardly even had to think about.

Head tilt, small smirk. “Not to worry,” she said soothingly, a hint of teasing in her voice. “If they let the likes of Lestrade in, you certainly have nothing to fear.”

Her head tipped back a little as she settled back in her chair, finger completing one more circuit of the rim before she lifted the glass to her mouth. She didn’t sip, just allowed the picture she knew she made be admired for a moment.

“See anything that catches your interest?” Anthea asked, voice too low to be casual. Smirk, gaze flick to the menu, back to Maguire’s eyes. “Besides dessert.”

A calculated drink, her throat on display. She set the glass down and her tongue darted out to swipe a drop of wine off her bottom lip.

Maguire hadn’t melted into a puddle yet. Delightful. She might ( _might_ ) make it through the night. One could only hope.

 

*

 

Jesus, this was far too fun. Anthea was the single most gorgeous female in this room, and more than one intrigued bloke was now glancing over. She was just so controlled, so sleek, so elegant... all of it said, _make me wild._

Jinx had missed this. The chase.

She'd missed seeing somebody want her - want who she was pretending to be, anyway. Maybe Anthea liked eating nervous virgins alive. It was only sporting to put up a fight, and provide the woman with a challenge for once.

Blinking down at the menu, brow furrowed, Jessamine took a moment to mull it over.

"Maybe asparagus?" she said. "Purely because it comes with sea urchin, and I _need_ to see what that looks like served. D'you think it comes with the spines still? Interesting things stuck on them? Then maybe lamb, I guess. Probably without the peas."

Spotting something under desserts, she laughed aloud.

"Who the hell would have _lemon and mint soufflé?"_ she said. "That sounds crap. It'll taste like washing-up liquid and toothpaste."

A rubbery-looking gentleman at the next table turned a slow, unimpressed look from his lemon and mint soufflé, regarding Jinx with open amazement.

Jinx didn't notice. She was too busy beaming across at Anthea.

"So," she said. "Guess what _I_ saw in the car on the way here. You won't get it, so don't even bother."

 

*

 

Charmed in spite of herself, Anthea passed a hand over her mouth to hide a larger smile than usual and ducked her head. Perhaps this was part of what Mr. Holmes saw in Lestrade, she mused; the open, mindless ignorance - no, dismissal - of so-called ‘standards’. Not afraid to call things as they saw them.

She didn’t laugh, or even chuckle, but she did allow an amused noise to tumble out of her throat. “I can’t say as I’ve ever _had_ washing-up liquid and toothpaste,” she said, eyes glittering, “but I assure you the dish is popular.”

A small smile. She leaned forward, propped her chin in her hand, and cupped the elbow in her other hand, eyebrows arched ever so slightly upwards. This pose accented her cheekbones, opened her eyes, and framed her breasts in a way that was clear, but not overly wanton or obvious. Nothing crass.

“Well, if I won’t ever manage to guess, will you simply tell me?” she asked prettily, eyelashes lowering for half a moment. “I admit you have me curious.”

Not even a lie, surprisingly.

“It’s not nice to tease me with a thing like that.” This, lower and purred. More of a lie; she was thoroughly open to being teased. However, that was the domain of the hunted, not the hunter.

And she was always the hunter, to her occasional dismay.

“Don’t leave me hanging, Maguire.” Phrased like an order, breathed like a plea.

 

*

 

_This is just too fucking good now._

"I saw Mr Holmes basically eat a smartie out of Lestrade's hand," Jinx said, in delight, for all the world oblivious to the magnificent display now being made just for her. "I'll admit off the bat that Greg threw it to him. But the fact remains: they're feeding each other sweets now. Maybe I'm an unusual case, but Mr Holmes has never let me hand-feed him smarties - and I'm pretty sure he's never let _you_ hand-feed him smarties."

Her eyebrows flashed.

 _"And,"_ she added, "I bet you _any money_ that they're having grade A eye-sex, this very instant. Aren't they? I'm not even going to look round. Just glance past my shoulder, and tell me there's not a whole lot of seduction going on in this restaurant right now. _And they don't even realise it."_

She wondered, briefly, at what point Anthea would break and just leap on top of her.

She was looking forward to finding out.

 

*

 

The only sign of Anthea’s utter shock was a fractional arching of her brows. _Well, well. Isn’t_ that _an interesting development_.

She gave a small, highly amused smile. “No, he’s never let me hand-feed him smarties,” she agreed.

Her eyes slid over Maguire’s shoulder to check on the two men. They looked like a couple (as always); Lestrade grinning and charming, Mr. Holmes smiling and quietly pleased. All on track.

Her gaze locked back onto Maguire’s, her own brown eyes staring into green. “There absolutely is a whole lot of seduction going on right now,” she purred, low and throaty.

“And no. They don’t realise it.”

_Apparently, neither do you._

Anthea hadn’t had to work this hard in - years, if not over a decade. It was a thrill, frankly; to have to work to make someone notice her. She thrived on challenge, and Maguire was turning out to be more of a challenge than she had first imagined.

Curious, though. A casual glance from Anthea could send the woman into babbling nervousness at home, but here, in public, with nearly the full weight of her seductive abilities turned on her, Maguire was essentially normal.

Something to ponder later. For now, she had a goal to achieve.

 

*

 

 _You're seeing the advantages too, aren't you?_ It was good to know Anthea was working to bind that particular arrangement together as well. It meant it was even more guaranteed to happen than Jinx had thought. Mr Holmes would be happy; Lestrade would be happy. Everybody would be happy. Even the squirrels in the garage would be happy.

"How long d'you reckon it'll be?" she said, her eyes glinting. "Them, I mean. Before it happens."

She decided to show a little more of her hand here; Anthea was a powerful ally to have on side.

It was also clearly driving her a little wild, that she was flirting so gorgeously and nobody seemed to be home. Jinx would have to give her a little something soon, keep her keen.

"Seems the sort of thing that should be encouraged," she said, sipping her water. "I mean... we all want the best for Mr Holmes, right? Seems like the best is right within his reach."

As she put the glass down, her eyes snagged for the shortest of seconds on Anthea's cleavage - a single skip and then away, cool and quick.

 

*

 

 _Finally. Apparently your eyes are good for something other than being beautiful_.

 _Right within his reach, indeed_. _He’s not the only one._

Anthea leaned back in her chair, playing idly with her wineglass. “It is rather rude to gossip, Maguire,” she said, shifting her weight. She observed the other woman as she paused briefly. Anthea was starting to get the sneaking suspicion that she was being toyed with.

She was also starting to suspect that she didn’t mind.

The slightest hint of a smile. “I will indulge you for a moment,” she said regally. “If I were being optimistic? Within the fortnight.”

Her lips pursed for a fraction of a moment. “Unfortunately, I am realistic. Mr. Holmes will not initiate any - encounters. There are a plethora of reasons for this, but the largest one is this: he does not believe Lestrade has an interest in men.”

She rolled her eyes, then gave Maguire a look that managed to be both pointed and conspiratorial. “Isn’t it frustrating when people are blind to the truth of what’s before them?” she asked.

“We can only hope Lestrade is a little more - forward.” Punctuated by the slightest lean.

 

*

 

"Yeah," said Jinx, with a sheepish grin. "I hate when that happens. Why can't people just open their eyes?"

She looked across the restaurant again, apparently fascinated by the well-heeled and the wealthy who were eating here this evening. Her smile was easy and impressed; her eyes were bright.

"Thing is," she said, thinking, "I worry Lestrade's too professional. Think it's not his place, you know? He won't want to lose the job, either. I mean, that's not just a rejection. That's like... 'right, mate, get packing, and I'll tell the agency that you hit on me.' I think he needs Mr Holmes to give him a pretty obvious invite before he'll go for it."

She reached for her water again, while quietly loosening her tie with a finger.

"But, if you're right... and Mr Holmes doesn't think it's on the table... maybe they're going to need a nudge of some kind. Something _really_ obvious. Something they just can't miss."

 

*

 

Anthea narrowed her eyes. The suspicion that she was being toyed with was growing larger.

“Indeed.” She had some ideas on how to deliver the proverbial two-by-four ‘nudge’ to the two men, but it could wait for a little while.

Movement caught her eye as their server approached the table cautiously. He had been instructed to wait until it was clear they both knew what they wanted, and since neither woman had touched a menu in several minutes, he figured it was safe to approach.

“I hope you know what you want,” Anthea said crisply, looking at Maguire across the table. Her tone was just a little pointed.

She gave the waiter a slow smile as she turned to face him. “Sea bass to start with,” she said coolly. “Lobster. Veal.” Her finger trailed along the stem of the wineglass slowly.

The smile became sultry. “Parisian chocolate to finish, please.” This was purred, eyes hooded. She crossed her legs a little and leaned forward.

The poor young man flushed, visible even by candlelight, eyes going wide.

“And, uh - f-for you, miss?” he asked, turning to Jinx, hand trembling faintly.

Anthea wore a smirk. She still possessed the capability of reducing people to stammering wrecks, apparently. _So it is just Maguire, then. How_ very _interesting_.

 

*

 

_Don't torment the poor kid, gorgeous. He's going to have to wank himself into delirium tonight to get to sleep._

With what she thought of as a reassuringly queer smile, slanted and easy, Jinx said to the server,

"Let's go for asparagus, halibut and the lamb for me - thanks. And I'll join her with the chocolate, if that's cool."

As he hurried away from their table, now walking rather stiffly and holding his notepad very tight, Jinx took the opportunity to have a discreet glance across the restaurant.

Mr Holmes and Lestrade were getting on gorgeously. She doubted they'd even realised Jinx and Anthea were in the building with them. They weren't looking anywhere else, weren't noticing a thing, too lost in each other - talking, laughing, smiling. Lestrade looked like he'd always belonged with Mr Holmes.

And Mr Holmes...

He looked like Jinx had never seen him. Delight shone from his face with every laugh, and Greg was causing plenty of them. Without a doubt, Jinx knew that Mr Holmes would sit there until the sun came up, just for the chance to be with Lestrade.

_God. My apparently tender heart._

You didn't get into MI5 to find someone to share your days. The ranks were full of loners, who'd either been born that way or broken, and there was a strange community in it sometimes.

It was nice, though - seeing it happen.

She tried not to contemplate what would be going through her head, the first night her security devices registered a visitor to Mr Holmes's bedroom. _Christ, I won't sleep._ Jinx was gay to the bone, but something about the thought of Mr Holmes on Lestrade's lap, panting softly as Lestrade mouthed at his neck, rocked up inside him, soothing him...

Taking a drink of water, Jinx turned her slightly flushed gaze back to Anthea.

 _Yep. Definitely still gay._ She gave a faint smile, coughing.

"So... dinner conversation. I don't know what posh people talk about while waiting for food. You might have to take charge of me on this."

 

*

 

Anthea didn’t bother to watch the waiter go; he was irrelevant. Her attention was back on Maguire, gaze intense. _What has you flushed like that, hm?_

Usually, she would assume it was her own womanly wiles causing such a reaction, but Maguire seemed to be almost totally oblivious to them.

It seemed that the young woman was more of a puzzle than previously anticipated. There was more to her than it first appeared, and it was deliciously intriguing. Anthea couldn’t wait to figure her out.

Speaking of…

“I think you’ll find I’m _very_ good at taking charge,” she said, voice low and smirking just slightly. She sat forward, one ankle tucked round a leg of her chair. The other leg slid forward until hose barely brushed trouser. The contact could have been accidental from anyone else.

“‘Posh’ people often discuss other people, same as anyone,” she said dryly, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Politics, mostly. Economics. Who is doing business with whom. It all comes down to what you know and about whom.”

She allowed her lips to curl in a secretive smile and lifted her wineglass to her lips. “So. I propose… a game, of sorts.”

 

*

 

"A game?"

_Oh, Jesus. This is either going to be brilliant or disastrous._

_Or both._

Jinx took a sip of water, smiling with an uncertainty that wasn't entirely feigned.

"Go on," she said as, beneath the table, her leg accidentally tilted a little to one side, providing another accidental brush of fabric against hose. "I'm listening. Should warn you I'm not much of a poker player, if it's that sort of game... strictly a snakes and ladders girl."

 

*

 

Anthea made a slightly disapproving ‘tsk’ noise. “Well, then I might win handily. Shame, I was _so_ looking forward to the challenge.”

She felt the cloth slide along her leg. _Mm. Much better_. Apparently she was starting to get somewhere.

She settled back in her seat, just a little, allowing her leg to brush the _slightest_ bit more solidly. No contact, of course - that would be far too forward - but less accidental than before.

“It’s called Two Truths and A Lie,” she said, smiling and folding her arms easily. “I trust you can guess the rules, but I’ll tell you anyway. We take it in turns to offer three pieces of information about ourselves. The other has to figure out which of the tidbits is false.” A sultry smile. “I’m sure we can come up with a suitable prize for the winner, if you so desire.”

_Come on, Maguire. Play with me._

 

*

 

_Christ._

This wasn't even playing with fire. This was juggling the stuff.

Inventing three lies, two of which were supposedly true, for a character who had no more basis in reality than Kermit the Frog... this would always be a seriously tricky task - even when faced with a normal person.

But this was Anthea, and she could spot all but the best of liars.

Jinx was the best of liars. She'd had six years practice in this role alone.

Then, she'd never been given this much scrutiny before. They'd just left her alone, let her drive the car, keep herself to herself. Lestrade's arrival in the household had suddenly brought every staff member into greater prominence, she thought - they weren't wallpaper anymore. They were people, and now Anthea had decided to sample some of their charms.

_Maybe this was a bad idea._

"Fine," Jinx heard her mouth say, and inwardly despaired that it was indeed the only option. A refusal would be far too suspicious for the genial and open Jessamine. "You - know I'm crap at lying, don't you? This is going to be a walk in the park for you. I might as well hit you with a pantomime wink when I tell you the lie."

 

*

 

“I’m sure you can muster up a bit more effort than that for me, Maguire,” Anthea purred, eyes sultry. The phrase ‘bedroom eyes’ could not have been more appropriate. “Give me a challenge. I’ll be sure to make it worth your while.”

She played with her wineglass for a moment, observing Maguire for a moment. “I’ll start.”

She hummed, thinking, before she said, “I’m allergic to tree nuts, I have no siblings, and I enjoy black and white films.” There. Nothing terribly revealing, but mostly things that no one else would know. Certainly nothing Maguire would have heard about; the woman would have to study Anthea closely to spot the lie.

She was looking forward to this; seeing if Maguire could spot her lies, seeing if _she_ could spot Maguire’s lies. Learning more about the woman in front of her, and making it into a challenge. Everything she could want from an evening.

Especially since Lestrade and Mr. Holmes were so thoroughly entranced by each other. They needed no supervision whatsoever, which left Anthea free to play.

This was turning out to be a very good idea, indeed.

 

*

 

Jinx pondered the matter.

Allergies were difficult to guess from the outside - and as nothing on the menu included tree nuts, it wasn't possible to figure out from Anthea's choice of food either.

Siblings could go either way. An only child, given the space and attention to develop her iron-clad confidence? An older daughter, expected to take responsibility for the younger ones? Or a younger child, accustomed to getting what she wanted? There was also the possibility Anthea _had_ had siblings, but she'd eaten them.

Enjoying black-and-white films.

Anthea?

Something as frivolous as a film?

Then again, Jinx supposed, she had time to frivolously torture Mr Holmes's junior staff.

She also had a vague sense that Anthea wouldn't use as broad a category as 'black-and-white films' if it were a genuine interest, opting instead for something more specific.

Then again, lying about a personal interest was easy. Lying about something as inconsequential as an obscure allergy was easy.

Lying about something personal - family - was harder. It was a more obvious place to conceal something with a lie. As much as this game might (by normal people's rules) be about getting to know each other, Jinx supposed that Anthea's version was more about how much they could conceal from each other.

Ultimately, the woman was clever - which meant double and even triple bluffs were on the table.

Jinx took a drink of water, plumped for her instincts, and said,

"I think you're lying about the siblings."

 

*

 

Anthea’s mouth curled into a satisfied smile. “Afraid not,” she said, not bothering to conceal her satisfaction. “Mother had a hard time carrying me. I’m the only child.”

A truth, but not the whole truth. It was a convenient truth, certainly, and had given her parents a reason to cease having children.

The whole truth was that they had wanted to focus all their time and energy on one child, and then be done. Anthea had been raised to be independent and self-sufficient from a young age. Her parents loved her, in their way, and she had never wanted for anything.

To be perfectly frank, it was probably for the best she had never had a sibling. She had seen what competition between siblings could do, and wanted no part of it.

She leaned back in her chair, still smiling a little. The movement brushed her calf along the leg of Maguire’s trousers again. “No peanuts for me, I’m afraid.”

They had discovered her allergy at age six, when a neighbor had brought over peanut butter fudge. One bite had nearly killed her.

Luckily, as a woman, it was easy enough to apologetically decline foodstuffs with “Not part of my diet, I’m afraid” (though Anthea had never had need of a diet).

Once, just once, she had admitted that it was an allergy. A coworker hadn’t believed how serious her allergy was and had put grated peanuts into a salad for her, ‘for protein’. It had been luck that she had only had a taste. She had been rushed to hospital and gone back to work the next day. The coworker had been let go.

She now carried an EpiPen for emergencies.

Her eyes flashed a little as she smirked. “Your turn.”

 

*

 

Jinx blinked owlishly, a quirked smile on her face. “No peanuts, eh? Good to know,” she said, laughing a little.

She took another sip of water, thoughts racing to come up with her ‘truths’ and her ‘lie’, all of them patently false. Cheery driver Jessamine Maguire was trembling a bit under the intense scrutiny of the gorgeous woman across the table. MI5 agent Jinx was flying too close to the sun, and enjoying it a touch more than she should.

Jinx shifted in her seat, pulling her legs back as she fidgeted with her tie. Figuring out how to make the lies seem like truths without having the ‘real’ lie be too obvious was going to be a balancing act.

“Umm…” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop, making a thinking face. “My parents are separated, I had strawberry-blonde hair as a kid, and I once licked a toad on a dare.” She grinned self-consciously.

 

*

 

Anthea’s eyes narrowed as she pulled her own legs back. _Curious_. The physical retreat, the nervous drumming and fidgeting… Perhaps she had miscalculated. Come on too strong.

Maybe Maguire was finally realizing how hard she was being flirted with and wanted no part of it, or was rethinking the advisability of the two of them interacting in such a way.

It’d be a shame, if that was true. Anthea could only hope the woman was just nervous.

As for those tidbits. Well, Maguire had been right; it wasn’t much of a challenge. Her hair still held flashes of the strawberry blonde she had grown out of, so that was clearly true.

And somehow, Anthea found it easy to believe Maguire had licked a toad once. At least once.

She smirked. “Your parents aren’t separated.” Her eyes were bright and triumphant.

 

*

 

Jinx laughed a little, nodding. “Yeah, you’re right. My parents are happily married, settled out in the country. Good job.”

_God._

_Okay. Enough._

_I can’t do this._

The realization hit her like a punch in the gut, though none of it crossed her face.

It was too late to let Jessamine get blown away by Anthea’s sexual prowess; Jinx was too far invested in the game. _Stupid, stupid,_  she berated herself. She'd gotten caught up in the challenge and knew, just _knew_ that she couldn’t let Jessamine take over once they were in bed together. And letting it be herself in that bed would be -- utterly disastrous. Anthea would suspect something, maybe suspect everything.

Jinx wasn’t about to throw away six years of work for a shag.

Even if it _was_ Anthea.

She licked her lips nervously. How to get out of this gracefully -- or not so gracefully; she’d take any exit she could get.

_Ah. Got it._

Which was why her expression went queasy, she stammered an apology, and ran to the loo.

A quick finger down the throat, a minute or two of rubbing her eyes with her fists to get that red-rimmed look. Let down the hair, splash the face with cold water.

Perfect. She headed back to the table, looking miserable. _Shit. I hope this works._

 

*

 

The only sign of Anthea’s shock was a brow arching upwards. She rose fluidly, perfectly balanced and controlled. The onset of Maguire’s stomach issues was… tellingly sudden. First the physical retreat, then this.

If it was what she thought it was, it was the first time in a _long_ time she had miscalculated so badly.

_I’m not sure I’ve ever had anyone fake needing to vomit to get away from me. First time for everything._

Her eyes flicked up and down Maguire, in a look that was calculating and yet so different from the other looks she had been giving her all night.

Before the other woman could get a word out, Anthea said, “Go home, Maguire. I’ll call another driver for us.”

The woman looked like a picture of misery. “I’m really sorry,” she said, mouth drawn down. “It’s -- all of a sudden --”

Anthea held up a hand, cutting her off. “No need. Go home. Rest up. Alert me if you are not still feeling well in the morning, so I can arrange another driver for Mr. Holmes.”

She stepped forward and took Maguire’s hands, squeezing briefly before stepping back. “Take care of yourself, Maguire.” Her eyes were soft for just a moment before the cool wall of professionalism went back up.

She sat down, the picture of poise. A dismissive wave. “Go.” All flirtatiousness, all coquettishness, all playfulness was gone. Closed off as though it had never been there.

 

*

 

Jinx swallowed hard, wincing. _Shit. I hope the fallout from this is minimal._

On one hand, that brief moment of openness, taking her hands; maybe Anthea wasn’t pissed about being abandoned?

But on the other hand, that immediate snapping into cold professionalism, that shutdown. That didn’t bode well.

“Right. I’ll...be off, then. Have a good night.” She managed a weak smile. “Enjoy the chocolate.”

“ _Go,_ Maguire.” Anthea’s voice was velvety steel. “Before you ruin the carpet.”

_Yikes._

“Right.” Jinx headed off, stumbling a little. As she reached the door, she turned for just a moment.

She watched their appetizers arrive, and watched Anthea send Jinx’s back with an icy dismissiveness. More wine, and she tucked in, all alone and as untouchable as a marble statue.

_Christ._

_I'm sorry, darlin'._

_Really, I am._

_If I thought you'd understand... maybe I'd tell you. Maybe you'd not tell Holmes instantly. Maybe you'd agree it's for the best, and we could figure something out._

_Maybe._

Jinx dropped her eyes. She lowered her head, and walked in silence back to the car.

She'd  _definitely_ be having a smoke before she drove back. Christ.

 


	15. Slutty Drunk

The only downside to excellent company: it made wine so much easier to drink. Mycroft wasn't the sort of oblivious moron who intoxicated himself to hell by accident. He was fully aware as the evening progressed that the two of them were drinking very contentedly together, a little more than an ordinary dinner might involve, and he was relaxing more and more as courses went by. He let himself drink until the point he could feel its heat in his cheeks, feel its lazy glitter taking over his eyes, then swapped himself at once to mineral water. 

He could still feel the warmth it had left in his veins. 

Mycroft had first become aware of alcohol's effect on him at university. The technical term for the condition back then had been 'slutty drunk', and it now rather mortified him to think he'd ever been proud of the reputation. His younger self had been a very different man. The atmosphere at Cambridge had been conducive to it; adventures were perhaps embarked on that he'd now very comfortably turn down in favour of a book and cocoa.

Little had changed when it came to wine, though. He'd developed the sense to spot and monitor its influence on him, at least. He'd also spent more than a few lonely nights in meditation on the fact that when his grip on his inhibitions was eased, the longing that arose to the surface was for sex and human touch. He'd reached various conclusions, none of which were very comfortable in the light of the day - but life had become what it was, and Mycroft had found his peace in it.

He now took great care not to drink much at work functions or business dinners. The chances of him losing his mind and seducing some spluttering Tory politician on a whim were magnificently minor, but one couldn't be too careful - and he rather wanted to keep that side of his personality away from his work contacts. 

One of whom -  _ really -  _ he knew he should consider Lestrade.

But this evening had felt so much like an intimate meal. He felt safe enough with Lestrade to drink; the wine then left him feeling safe enough to smile, to laugh, to share the odd story from earlier days in his career. It was impossible  _ not _ to relax with the man.

By the time the server arrived to take their plates from the main course, Mycroft was feeling spectacularly at ease. His pupils had been blown by wine and candlelight, and he was finding it impossible to lay them anywhere but Lestrade. It was where they felt best. Just  _ looking  _ at the man was pleasurable. Mycroft could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, tickling, stretching, a purring heat that if coaxed to the surface by gentle hands would escape him at once in urgent moans and whimpers. The fabric of his suit felt good against his skin; the ambience of the room both softened and aroused him at once. Lestrade's voice was enjoyable in his ears. 

He was happy - truly, richly, bone-deep  _ happy. _

As the server made to leave, Mycroft leant back in his chair. He placed polite fingertips on the young man's arm, reached up to his ear and murmured something briefly. The server smiled, and made his exit.

He returned a few minutes later with their lemon and mint souffle - and two spoons.

 

*

 

_ God, what a day. What a night, _ Greg thought to himself, lost in happy, easy conversation with his -

Boss. With his boss. 

It seemed like every other second he had to remind himself that this was his  _ boss _ , not a mate, not his friend, and certainly not -

Anything else.

But Christ Almighty, that was hard to remember. Especially with the man  _ smiling _ and  _ chatting _ and looking  _ absolutely fucking stunning _ . The candlelight gave him a softer look, cheeks and eyes warmed by the wine (and the company, Greg dared to hope). He looked at ease, comfortable. Happy.

Mycroft was simply breathtaking. And a small, secret part of Greg wanted to bundle him up and tuck him away, where no one, no one but him, would ever see Mr. Holmes like this, so open and carefree.  _ Just for me. _

Greg’s heart had lodged itself firmly in his throat and refused to move from its new residence. His chest was tight, but somehow in a good way? He didn’t examine the feeling too much, just allowed the sheer happiness and comfort he was feeling to shine through in his expressions, in his voice.

Keeping himself from taking the man’s hands was a constant battle. He wanted so badly to reach across - to touch - 

And then his dessert arrived.  _ Their _ dessert, by the appearance of the second spoon.

_ Oh, you crafty bastard. What did I do to deserve you, huh? _

Greg grinned, staring across the table. He loved just watching Mycroft. Especially like this, glowing and relaxed. He wanted to see more of it.

_ Christ, posh, your eyes. Lord save me. Looking at me, like that. _

If it had been anyone else, Greg would have spooned up some of the souffle and offered it to him with a cheeky grin, or (more likely) a sultry smile.

The wine hadn’t throttled his brain  _ quite _ that much, though, so instead he picked up a spoon and threw him a cheeky grin, anyway. “Earned my dessert, have I, sir?” he asked, voice low and eyes sparkling. 

 

*

 

Mycroft's soul groaned softly to itself. In his current state, he could think of quite a few other ways that Lestrade might earn his favour. Even 'sir' was rather working for him, teasing as it was. In any other professional connection, Mycroft would have expected 'sir' without fail and with full awareness of his authority - but from Lestrade, with  _ that  _ grin, it was quite the most flirtatious and evocative nickname Mycroft had ever received.

"Suspect you'll throw a tantrum, if I attempt to impose my will upon you..." Mycroft rested his chin on one hand, picked up the spoon with surprising grace, and took the honour of gently breaking the sugar crust of the dessert. "I note that you also finished all your vegetables. Souffle seems only fair."

As he placed a first spoonful of cream and lemon in his mouth, his eyes briefly shut. 

"This shan't do my waistline any kindness," he remarked, cleaned the spoon with care, and scooped up some more. 

 

*

 

Greg’s heart leaped up somewhere into the region of his sinuses, sunk back down  _ significantly _ lower, and finally settled somewhere about the region of his stomach, warm and purring.

_ Christ. You are going to be the death of me. _

Watching Mycroft clean his spoon threatened to send blood rushing where it really was not needed, so he took a sip of his water instead, using it as an excuse to swallow hard.

Many, many thoughts were dancing through his head, almost all of them inappropriate and destined to be locked away. Or shelved for now, at the very least.

He picked up his own spoon and took a bite. His eyes lit up as the tangy lemon and cool mint spread over his mouth. It was decadent and smooth, and, yeah, probably full of calories and other unsavoury things.

But  _ damn _ , was it good.

He smiled around his spoon and pulled it out of his mouth, allowing the bowl to spread the last of the mouthful over his tongue. “Not to worry, sir, I’m sure we can think of a way to work it off,” he said smoothly, taking another spoonful with a dark smirk.

 

*

 

Mycroft huffed, his eyes glittering across the table.  _ If only you knew.  _ The man would run a mile, if he had the slightest clue as to the nature of Mycroft's thoughts. He'd be out of the house by morning, packed and gone in a panic. 

"You could always make another attempt on my life," Mycroft suggested with a faint smile, watching Lestrade eat another spoonful of the souffle. "The effect it had was probably similar to thirty minutes of cardio..."

_ Or you could have another glass of wine, and come to my bed when we're home. Let me hush you. Soothe you. Not homosexual - simply curious - simply experimenting - lie back, be comfortable. Let me ride you. Just ride you, slowly. Watch you feel it.  _

_ And then you will leave in the morning,  _ his rational side added, dully.  _ You will never speak to me again.  _

_ Intoxicating you, and coaxing you into sex... God help me.  _

_ Immoral just to daydream about it. _

Mycroft took a little more souffle, shifting quietly in his seat as he ate.

"I fear I've imbibed slightly more wine than I planned, Lestrade. I hope I've not been drunkenly unbearable company."

 

*

 

_ Not sure you could ever be unbearable company, even if you were falling down drunk instead of mildly tipsy. _

Greg gave him a crooked smile, eyes dancing. “I’ve been told I have that effect on people,” he said. “The more wine thing.” 

He took a spoonful of the dessert. “No worries, Mr. Holmes,” he said reassuringly. “You’re perfect company.” He grinned. “Although I am getting conflicting orders, now. First I’m not allowed to tackle you on your way to the loo, now I’m supposed to try to kill you again. Which is it?”

_ I can think of a few more ways to get your heart rate up. See that perfect, pale skin flush - rosy, glowing…  _

Another sip of water and a very firm scolding.  _ None of that, Lestrade. Behave. _

He decided to distract himself by eating his spoonful slowly, concentrating on the smooth slide of the souffle against his tongue.

_ Silky. Heady. Wonder if it’s anything like -- _

_ NO. _

Greg’s jaw worked for the briefest of moments as he resolutely did  _ not _ think about what it would be like to give his boss a blow job.

 

*

 

_ 'Perfect company'.  _

_ God alive, what I'd give for you to mean that. _

"Perhaps I'll leave the decision in your hands," Mycroft said, with a faint smile. "I'm certain you have my best interests at heart... dramatic though some of your methods might be."

He took another quiet spoonful of dessert.

All too soon, the dish was empty. Mycroft finished his very final half-glass of wine, telling himself that he'd behaved himself admirably so far - and that the rather decadent souffle would absorb the extra alcohol with ease. He imagined he was going to sleep quite well.

The server reappeared a few minutes later. As he gathered up the bowls, he turned his smile to Mycroft and asked, brightly,

"Would you or your partner care for coffee at all, sir?"

_ Would... would I or my...?  _

_ Oh! _

_ Oh, lord! _

Mycroft found himself pitched at once into a raging torrent of embarrassment and delight. Just hearing a friendly stranger assume such a thing sent butterflies flapping wildly through his chest. He realised at once that he needed to correct the man - for Lestrade's comfort, if nothing else - but then doing so might only draw more attention to the error, thereby making this moment so much worse.

His wits blotted by alcohol, his cheeks now pink and his eyes rather wide, Mycroft glanced hesitantly across the table at Greg.

"Would you - care for - ?" he managed, still startled.  _ Dear God, please do not be horrified. Please see the humour in this. Please. _

 

*

 

_ Partner. Christ, at least we’re old enough that he didn't say ‘boyfriend’.  _

Cute, though, Greg had to admit. He couldn't deny that it caused a burst of something warm and fuzzy in him to be seen as Mycroft's partner -- that someone would cheerily assume that they were  _ together _ .

Probably meant that he should dial back the flirtations, however. Shame, really.

He caught Mycroft’s look and his heart lurched in his chest. The man looked - bewildered, maybe a little scared.

_ Scared… of me? My reaction? Am I - Jesus, are you upset that he thought that we’re together? _

_ Is it really that unbelievable? _

Even as Greg's heart threatened to sink through his stomach, he smiled easily, eyes crinkling at the corners. Easy. Relaxed. Maybe a little amused. It  _ was _ pretty funny, at least in Greg’s mind. It had been a while since anyone had assumed he was anything but straight.

It was kind of nice.

“I could go for a coffee, yeah,” he said, looking at Mycroft. “Fancy a cup?”

 

*

 

The man was unbearably gracious, Mycroft thought. A lot of heterosexual men would have been distressed or even angered by such an assumption. It wasn’t the server’s fault that Mycroft’s flirting had given a false impression to the room at large, and the last thing he wanted was to make the server feel embarrassed. 

Thank God Lestrade was noble enough to take it in his stride. 

Turning to the server, still a little nervous and flustered, Mycroft requested two coffees along with the bill. 

The server left. 

A silence came. 

_ Oh lord, he’s going to clam up. He’s realised what it looked like. What we were pantomiming. He’s going to be formal with me.  _

Mycroft glanced across the table, his eyes soft and a little rounded. 

_ What to say? I can’t let that go unaddressed, or the man will never feel comfortable in my presence again.  _

Sincerity and formality? 

_ “Lestrade, please don’t feel unsettled by a stranger’s polite attempt to - ...?” _

No. That wasn’t a language Lestrade spoke. It wouldn’t mean to him what it meant to the ambassadors and aristocracy that Mycroft usually spoke the language with. 

But he also knew a language that Greg  _ did _ speak. 

And he was gaining fluency in it more and more. 

Allowing the tiniest, faintest hint of a smile to re-enter his expression, and with a glance of guilty humour, he said,

“I... fear we’ve just been set up, Lestrade.”

 

*

 

Greg started sniggering faintly, polishing off the last of his wine for lack of anything better to do.

“One of the subtler ways I’ve ever been set up,” he said, amused. “Got locked in the closet, once. Both pushed in a pond. Could’ve been worse.”

He smiled, wrinkling his nose. “Poor lad didn’t know any better. No harm done.”

_ Relax, posh. Just a misunderstanding. Not a big deal. _

Greg raked a hand through his hair and smiled, a little ruefully. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” he said, thoughtfully. “How much has changed. Used to be you got your ar---rear handed to you if anyone even thought you were…” He gestured vaguely between them. “And now a server can casually ask that, and no one thinks twice. Pretty incredible.”

 

*

 

Laughter -  _ thank God.  _ The thought of Lestrade being locked in a confined space with some ridiculously fortunate woman made Mycroft's stomach flip with distress, but there was no time to ruminate on it now. He'd just torture himself with the thought at two AM, when he was horny and lonely and unable to sleep.

He watched Lestrade perform the hair-scruff that was so characteristic of him, revealing the underside of his arm - the muscles Mycroft knew were there beneath his shirt. He found his shoulders unwinding a little, calm returning, then Greg's reassurance brought another smile. The man was even comfortable to gesture between them, suggesting the gay couple they'd been mistaken for.

_ Perhaps he's attempting to indicate that he knows that I am - ... that it's quite fine. That he's comfortable with it.  _

_ Secure in himself.  _

_ Hardly an unobservant man... a brief glance in my bedside drawer will have told him anything he needs to know. I can't have expected to hide the truth for long. _

Mycroft realised he was rubbing the stem of his wine-glass between his fingers.

"At one time, I - believed quite fervently that the world would never see these days..." He watched Greg, smiling a little. "My collection - the library - was nearly dismantled at one point... a few decades before I owned it. The books themselves are largely rather dry and academic, barely even of interest to scholars, but taken together the theme that emerges was thought to be inflammatory... it was considered terribly circumspect, once. To collect together literature that we now comfortably class as LGBT history, and proceed onwards with our lives."

He paused, glancing down into his wine-glass.  _ The sort of man who would stay in bed afterwards,  _ he thought.  _ Talking, resting. Bonding. _

"Rather proud to look after it in a way," he finished, feeling self-conscious.

 

*

 

Greg smiled, and it was an honest smile. “You should be,” he said. “History needs people like that -- like you. Guardians.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Someone has to protect the past. If you don’t know where you’ve come from, how can you know where you’re going, right?”

Melody had pulled him aside one night several months ago, after the kids were in bed, and confided in him that Adrienne had announced that she had a crush on a girl on her football team. She had taken his hands and asked if he would talk to her about it, reassure her if anyone gave her shit about it. Both kids knew that Uncle Greg liked other men and took it in stride, but a reminder might not hurt, she had said.

He had smiled and promised that of course he would talk to her, talk to them both. He didn’t want Adrienne or Shannon ever feeling like they were lesser for any reason, especially who they got feelings for. 

Greg shook his head a little. “People have worked so hard to destroy that history… I’m glad it’s safe. With you.” He gave Mycroft a small, warm smile.

 

*

 

_ Oh, God...  _ the man couldn't possibly be more supportive. Mycroft tightened his grip quietly upon his wine-glass, fearing he was about to make the subtle tip from Slutty Drunk into Weepy Drunk. He couldn't think of a thing to say. He felt as reassured and comfortable as if Lestrade had rubbed his arm, told him not to worry about it, and hoped that he met a nice guy someday.

The arrival of the server with their coffees came as quite a relief. Mycroft settled himself by murmuring polite thanks, then adding cream and sugar to his cup. 

By the time he took a first careful sip, he'd hauled his emotions back under control.

"I hope Maguire didn't mind staying a little later," he said. "I'm growing more settled in my habits as I age... I much prefer a single driver these days. I imagine it's more conducive to my security, too."

 

*

 

Greg’s coffee got much the same attention, though minus the sugar. He stirred it carefully and took a sip, using it to center his own thoughts.

He smiled at the thought of Jinx. “Nah, I’m sure she didn’t mind. She’s a good kid. Hope she found a place to grab something to eat.”  _ Or maybe she’s eating with Anthea. _ He had to restrain a snigger. If she was, her head had probably exploded by now. He had glanced Anthea on the way in, and the woman was dressed to kill.

The thought hadn’t occurred to him before, but as he glanced over at the table where Anthea was sitting, it was quite clear that she was alone. Maguire was probably off somewhere, munching on chips and flipping through a magazine.

He made a noise low in the back of his throat, thoughtful. “I might shoot her a text, if you don’t mind? Let her know we’ll be ready to leave soonish?”

 

*

 

Mycroft smiled, not in the least offended. 

"Go ahead," he said, and sat back in his chair, holding the coffee cup to his mouth with both hands. He took a slow sip, watching Greg over the rim. "In fact," he said, on a thought, "I should possibly take care of our bill... we might as well synchronise."

He placed down his cup with a smile.

"I shan't be a moment," he said, got up from his chair - and immediately discovered a problem.

The room whirled somewhat. Mycroft placed a hand discreetly on the back of his chair, gripping it for a moment to let things steady. 

_ Oh, lord.  _

He'd quite definitely exceeded his limits. It was a marvel he hadn't offered Lestrade oral sex yet. He hoped Maguire didn't close the privacy screen on the way back, or things might escalate rather swiftly out of hand.

Only someone accustomed to Mycroft's movements would note the slight change to his tread as he made his way between the tables. His hips picked up a rather graceful sway, his steps slow and easy, though his composure remained remarkable and his head stayed high.

 

*

 

_ Uh oh.  _ Greg spotted it right away: the chair grab, the sway.

_ Someone’s had a bit much, _ he thought, amused. He smiled to himself and, yes, watched Mr. Holmes navigate the tables. Purely to make sure he didn't hurt himself, of course, and not because the suit was  _ extremely _ well-tailored and the subtle sway was enticing.

Definitely not.

Greg took a large swig of coffee to distract himself from the man’s arse and pulled out his mobile.

He composed and sent a swift text to Jinx. 

_ Think we'll be ready to go in 5. Car ready? -GL _

 


	16. Safe and Sound

Mycroft paid the bill without incident. His head still seemed to be functioning well enough - enough to pay for a meal without embarrassing himself beyond measure, at least. The air felt warm, and he was aware of the fabric of his clothing against his skin. He wanted to lie down. He wanted to tip his head back into cool pillows and rest, woozy and drunken and flushed in the face - and feel a mouth at his neck, stroking - stubble - and hands over his skin, rough and soft, and Lestrade's voice rumbling to him, whispering to him. 

Calling him  _ 'sir'. _

_ Oh, God. Stop it.  _

_ Stop it, stop it... we have a long drive home ahead of us. I can't feel like this.  _

_ I can't allow this. _

Mycroft took himself to the bathroom, patted a little cold water against his cheeks, and spent a minute or two settling his thoughts back to sensible matters.

He then returned to the table.

As soon as his eyes fell on Lestrade, the heat rippled through him again in a wild, flickering rush.  _ Oh God, must you be so handsome?  _ Lestrade's jaw would feel so good to kiss - to nuzzle against, moaning. His hair would feel soft between Mycroft's fingers. His shoulders would be broad under Mycroft's grasping hands, and his body heavy and comfortable.

It would feel so good to stroke his skin, hear him enjoy it. 

_ Oh, Christ. Christ help me. Why do I drink? I am unbearable. _

"Have you heard from Maguire?" Mycroft asked as he sat back down, hoping to distract attention from the pinkness in his cheeks and the size of his pupils. Lestrade was going to think he was an intoxicated deviant.

 

*

 

“Huh? Oh, no,” Greg said, looking up from where he had been frowning at his mobile. “No, which is weird. She's usually really on top of it.”

_ Jesus. Jesus. Fuck. I'm so fucked. _

Mycroft looked absolutely wrecked in all the right ways. Cheeks flushed, eyes dark, breath a little bit short.

Greg wanted to wreck him further; muss his hair, tear his suit off - or maybe take it off, torturously slowly - leave marks along his skin, leave him speechless.

Which meant Greg was completely round the bend and needed to get laid, preferably as soon as possible.

_ You can't think of him like that. He's your boss.  _

He opened his mouth to say something when his mobile pinged.

 

_ Got ill, had to send Osman in. :( sorry!!  
_ _ ~JM _

 

_ Feel better soon - can't stand Osman!! -GL _

 

He huffed a little, still frowning. “Maguire’s got sick and called off. Osman’s replacing her for tonight. My guess would be...ten minutes?” he hazarded.

 

*

 

Mycroft's flash of concern for Jessamine was replaced at once by an unconcealed wince. 

"Oh lord," he muttered. "Not Osman... well, I suppose if he's already on his way... and we can hardly spend the night sleeping in the street." 

At least Osman's manic driving would dampen his arousal somewhat, he thought. 

Hoped.

"Tell Maguire it's quite alright," he said, picked up his coffee and took a long drink, letting it fortify him. "Some things can't be helped. I'm sure we'll survive the experience... and the car should have a privacy screen we can shut."

He gave Greg a rather pleading look.

"Do sit in the back with me. Don't subject yourself to an hour in the front with that man."

 

*

 

Greg laughed. “You couldn't keep me out of that backseat if you tried,” he said, a challenge in his voice and a sparkle in his eyes.

He had only had to ride with Osman thrice, and each time was worse than the last. The second to last time they had been in the same car, Greg had contemplated throwing himself out of the car.

The last time they had been in the same car, he had contemplated throwing  _ Osman _ out the car and taking the wheel, himself.

“Don't worry, I'm happy to hide in the back with you.” He smiled easily and finished off his coffee.

“Oop!” His mobile buzzed and he pulled it out.

 

_ I owe you a pint, I know. Mr Holmes mad?  
_ _ ~JM _

 

_ He's fine. I'll hold you to that drink. Rest up, serious. Need you healthy, kid! -GL _

 

He smiled a bit and set the mobile away. “She feels bad about it,” he offered. “Could probably use a bit of concern tomorrow, if she's driving."

Greg’s head turned as he heard Anthea’s heels click over.

“The car has arrived, Mr. Holmes,” she said, voice low and professional.

 

*

 

_ And now I attempt to leave a restaurant as if I am perfectly sober. _

Mycroft finished his coffee, put the cup aside, and stood up with what felt like the required amount of grace. He was well aware that Anthea would spot his condition immediately, shrewd and observant and attentive of him as she was. He was only glad that she was also discreet, and would kindly not commit this to memory.

As his assistant moved away between the tables, Mycroft at first made to follow her - then experienced a curious flash of vulnerability, and glanced around for Lestrade. He hung back until his bodyguard was with him. It didn't seem right, after the evening they'd shared, simply to sweep off after Anthea - not that he was capable of much sweeping in this state, anyway. 

He wanted to walk near Greg. 

It took some quite dedicated focus not to reach for the man's hand. His fingers ached to do it - it felt like it would be such a natural thing, just to reach out a little and catch Greg's hand in his own, walk close, fingers tangled. He wanted to be touching. Part of his soul didn't understand why they weren't. 

_ God almighty, I must not drink again. This is not healthy. _

At the entrance to the restaurant, a waitress brought their coats. She was nearly a foot shorter than Mycroft - how she intended to help him into his coat was anyone's guess, but she approached with it held out all the same.

 

*

 

Greg took pity on her. He stepped around Mycroft and intercepted her, taking his jacket with a murmured, “I got this.”

An inch or two of height difference was no obstacle to helping another person dress. He held out the jacket with a soft smile, offering it out.

That small, secret part of him that had been purring all night wanted to step closer, make the distance evaporate and press their bodies close together. Intimate.

The rest of him choked it back firmly. He could only pray he could keep it throttled until they returned to the house.

Turned as he was, facing Mycroft, he completely missed Anthea taking her jacket from the waitress, slithering into it seductively. The poor woman melted as she received the full, albeit momentary, weight of her attention.

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart squeezed. 

"Thank you," he murmured to Greg, his eyes soft. He stepped closer and placed a hand on Greg's arm for a moment to anchor himself to the world. He then carefully turned, easing an arm inside his sleeve. The movement brought him into Greg's chest. His heart and soul ignited as he imagined, so clearly it was almost real, Greg reaching across those last few inches - ghosting a kiss across the side of his neck, murmuring something to him, some fondness - then home, his bedroom in the dark, Greg removing his coat for him once more - removing his other layers - warm and protective hands across his chest, across his stomach, lower,  _ lower,  _ strong arms wrapped around him from behind, gentle biting at his neck, fingers stroking him, hardening him, the soft voice whispering to relax. 

It struck Mycroft in a flash - and with a single stiff breath, it was gone. 

He found himself in the restaurant once more, reeling, sliding his other arm inside his coat.

Mycroft swallowed, his throat thick. He inclined his head to the man behind him.

"Thank you," he said again, gently. "You're - very kind, Lestrade..." He hesitated, feeling his heart ache. "Perhaps I should have stopped a glass or two ago. Forgive me. I - fear I'm a little vulnerable."

 

*

 

A sudden urge to close his arms around the man in front of him swept over Greg like a wave. Move his hands from where they were settled on Mycroft’s upper arms, lower, wrap around his arms around his waist and pull him close.

God, from here Greg could get just the faintest smell of his cologne. It made his head swim a little, made him want to bury his nose in that neck and inhale and bite - work the jacket open again and lower the pristine collar -

_ Shit.  _

He stepped back, but couldn't resist smoothing his hands over Mycroft's upper arms as he did so. 

He gave a gentle smile, expression soft as he moved to stand in front of his employer. “Not to worry, sir. I'll take care of you.”

 

*

 

_ Ohhh... fucking Christ...  _

Even the clean, gentle, professional contact down his upper arms made Mycroft’s blood burn. He barely resisted digging his teeth into his lip - barely kept himself from moaning aloud. A simple friendly gesture, and his heart began to thrash itself against his ribs in longing for more.  _ Oh, fuck... I want to be touched. I want to go to bed. I need to feel him part my thighs.  _

Mycroft got his expression under control in time for Greg to move in front of him - at which point he could only gaze, overcome, unable to hide the hot flush of his cheeks or the size of his pupils. 

He looked at Greg, calm enough upon the surface - beneath, his heart pounding in desperation. 

_ God help me. If you were mine.  _

This moment. Lay his hands on the man’s chest; murmur some little affection; lean close, kiss him gently, leave the restaurant on his arm. 

Those eyes. 

Those big, soft brown eyes. 

He realised, with a flush, that his fingertips had reached of their own free will to touch Greg’s forearm, just rest there a moment. The touch was quiet and appreciative. 

_ Take care of me. For God’s sake. I know you won’t, but please, please - please come to my bed. Lie down with me. Take care of me. Picture anyone you wish. Someone you want, just as much as I want you.  _

_ Just let me touch your skin. _

_ Just for a little while.  _

_ I fear there won’t be anyone again. I don’t remember the last time. I didn’t realise what it was.  _

_ Please.  _

Mycroft visibly swallowed the words. He did his best to compose himself, unaware that his eyes now shone with the very first brightness of tears. 

"Not quite sure what I’d do without you, Lestrade," he managed, his voice tight.  _ Oh God, how much more dignity can I sacrifice tonight? Where will it end? _

 

*

 

_ Oh Jesus.  _

That one small touch on his forearm - Greg wanted to pull the man close and just  _ hold _ him.

He could see how close Mr. Holmes was to falling apart. His eyes wide and pupils blown, cheeks red, eyes shining with unshed tears, pulse hammering so hard it could be seen along the side of his throat.

He just wanted to hold him and tell him everything would be okay.

So he smiled gently and cupped Mycroft’s elbow (purely to steady him, of course), tugging him forward. “Come on, sir,” he said softly. “Let’s get you to the car.”

Together, they walked outside (with a gracious nod to the host) and got in the car. 

Greg was making sure his employer was settled when he felt a delicate hand on his back. He jumped, startled, and turned to find Anthea there.

She smirked and leaned into his personal space. Being shorter than him, even in her heels, she had to brace a hand on his chest and go on tiptoes to get her mouth near his ear. 

“Take care of him,” she breathed. “I know how good you are at that.”

He blinked, a little dumbfounded. He hardly even noticed how slowly she pulled away, every touch lingering.

He only got into the car when she touched his shoulder and pushed.

But as soon as he was there, all his attention was on Mycroft again. They sat - rather closer than was probably proper, but they both needed something to hold on to when Osman inevitably took a corner too fast.

The most fleeting of moments, clutching onto each other for balance. It was all Greg could do to rip himself away.

By the time they arrived back at the house, Mr. Holmes seemed worse, and it was the most natural thing in the world to wrap his arm around the man’s waist, to steady him up the creaky stairs and end in front of his bedroom door.

Greg smiled up at him, expression soft. “Here we are,” he said, voice low. “Safe and sound.”

Somehow, he hadn’t quite gotten as far as removing his arm. Strange.

 

*

 

It was a holy trinity of influencing factors: alcohol, Lestrade's touch, and flaming bloody Osman. By the time they exited the car, Mycroft wasn't sure which he could blame more for his current state. Alcohol had to take its credit for starting this mess, but Osman had worsened it, driving like he was trying to toss the two of them out of the car and into a hedge.

And Lestrade - those gentle, stabilising hands. 

Mycroft knew it was professional. He was drunk and he was vulnerable, and Lestrade was in close contact in order to keep him safe - to stop Osman catapulting him across the seat; to ease him safely out of the car; to get him up the stairs, for God's sake, without falling and being found slumped at the bottom in the morning. It was professional. 

Mycroft knew it. 

But sweet God, it felt good.

A life of power - a reputation built on being invulnerable, above such things - and now to have an arm around him, guiding him with care...

It was wrong. He knew that, too. It was wrong to draw things from Lestrade that the man didn't mean to give to him - comfort, touch, closeness. 

How it hurt, though. 

_ Things I shan't have.  _ Just a facsimile of them was heaven. 

And he'd never asked, he thought. He let it soothe his guilt, his distress, as Lestrade guided him along the corridor to the door of his bedroom. He hadn't asked Lestrade to wrap an arm around him - it had been offered, freely. This was alright somehow.  _ This far, and no further. _ Lestrade didn't know what it was to Mycroft - but if it didn't come to light, it wouldn't hurt him.

_ It's alright, somehow. _

As they reached the door, Mycroft leant his back against it quietly - travel-sick, drunk, guilt-ridden and tired, gazing at Greg with smiling, weary gratitude. Relief twinkled in his eyes.

"I... might sleep late, in the morning," he murmured, inhaling. "You should - ..."

He meant to gesture -  _ sleep late, rest, rise when you wish Lestrade; _ exhaustion made it into a half-wave, one that brought his hand to Lestrade's chest and left it there. He couldn't bring himself to move it.  _ God help me, I'm a wreck.  _ The door felt solid against his back, and Lestrade's eyes were almost as warm as the chest he could now feel beneath his fingertips.  _ Oh God, kiss me... step into me and kiss me. I shan't tell a soul. I shan't breathe a word. _

Drawing breath, Mycroft closed his eyes.  _ I have to stop this. _

It was easier to speak without his sight, head resting back against the door, his chest rising and falling slow.

"You've gone above and beyond. I'm - mortified. This intoxicated. Please forgive me." 

_ If I just took hold of his shirt... gathered my fingers, pulled him close... oh, God - but to see his face change to anger - to see him realise - I couldn't bear it. Dreams will do.  _

"Tell me you're appalled with me, Lestrade..."

 

*

 

“Hardly,” Greg said easily, somehow managing to speak despite feeling the weight of Mr. Holmes’ hand resting on his chest like a brand. How was it that every touch, every small movement the other man made felt magnified a hundred times, a thousand?

_ God fucking dammit. Pull yourself together, Lestrade. This is your boss _ .

Oh, but to close the distance - to be closer still, feel breath across his lips - 

_ NO. _

“Come on, sir. Let’s get you ready for bed, yeah?” he murmured.

_ Don’t do it. Just let go and move him away from the door. _

His arm tightened, bringing Mycroft close, pulling him away from the door. Their bodies pressed together in one long line.

_ OH MY GOD. _

Fireworks. A bonfire. All thoughts stopped.

Greg inhaled (bad plan, Mr. Holmes’ cologne was more prominent now and more intoxicating than any bottle of wine) and managed to get his free hand onto the doorknob, opening it with a gentle  _ click _ .

“In we go,” he breathed. He didn’t move. Didn’t dare.

 

*

 

_ 'Let's get you ready for bed, yeah?'  _ Mycroft's expression flickered, his heart pounding so deeply he was sure it could be heard.  _ Oh, God. Oh God, he's - staring at me. But surely - surely not, surely - surely there's some other reason he'd...  _ then Greg's arm began to tighten. 

_ Oh, God. _

The press of their bodies sent irrepressible longing flashing over Mycroft's expression. His breath cut; his pupils, already huge, blew as wide as human pupils could go. They fluttered briefly from Greg's eyes to his lips, then back, startled and speechless and unable to hide it. 

The click of the door behind him sounded like an invitation.

_ In we go. _

Mycroft's heart had now stopped. It wasn't beating any longer. It was waiting, like the rest of him, staring at Lestrade and wondering if he was truly seeing what he was seeing. 

_ Oh, God. I think I am. _

_ Oh, Christ. _

_ It can't be true. _

He wanted it to be true so badly that, for one wild moment, it  _ was.  _ Lestrade was looking at him like that for a reason, and the reason was just a few short steps behind Mycroft - king-size, plush covers, cool pillows.  _ In we go.  _

Mycroft swallowed, too close now to stop. 

His hand gathered quietly in Greg's shirt.  _ Oh, God.  _ He took a single step back over the threshold, his eyes locked on Greg's, and gently tugged.

 

*

 

The tug - Greg responded automatically, stepping closer. He stumbled, just a little, and ended up chest to chest with him. Their lips hovered, a heartbeat apart.

_ Oh god this isn’t good. Oh god. Step back. Do something - anything -  _

And then there came a burst of sound.

His mobile ringing. 

Greg jerked back, startled.

He frowned and swore. He kept one hand on Mycroft’s arm and used the other to fish the ringing device out of his pocket. 

His frown deepened when he saw the number. Without a second thought, he answered it and held it to his ear. 

“Mel, hi, what’s -- Jesus, slow down, I can’t -- breathe, kiddo, breathe -- where’s--? Right, the conference --  _ breathe _ \-- slow, it’s fine, it’s gonna be fine -- you said Stacy went with them? Christ, isn’t she -- God, I’m old, seventeen, really? -- Yeah, definitely a bonus for that girl -- they’ll be fine, I’ll meet them there -- bring her home -- it’s fine, Mel, I’ll figure it out -- it’ll be fine --  _ breathe _ . I’ve got this. I promise you. Yeah. Yeah. I love you too. Go have a bottle of wine and get to sleep. I’ll update you every step of the way. Yeah. Love you. Bye.”

His face was ashen by the time he ended the call. 

“I’m -- sorry,” he said, face tight. “Shannon and Adrienne are in hospital -- or on their way? Melody was pretty incoherent -- and I -- need to go be with them. Melody and Roger are both away for a couple days. The kids were with a sitter and got ill. Nothing to worry about, but their temperatures just spiked and I -- Shannon might have started seizing? I couldn’t tell. It’s -- bad.”

He swallowed hard. 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, taking Mycroft by the elbows and leading him to the bed, helping him sit down. “I can’t -- I have to go. I’ll lock up, you have the button, but -- they’re all alone right now.” His throat was tight.

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart heaved higher into his throat with every word. The shock was ice-water to the soul - but the sting vanished in moments, overwhelmed in its entirety by concern.  _ The children.  _ Hyper-aware, his heart-rate still sky high, Mycroft's brain flew at speed along tracks that desire had already cleared for him.

As Greg sat him down on the bed, he reached at once inside his jacket.

"Take any vehicle you can operate," he said, pressing into Greg's hand the key to the garage. Every flicker of vulnerability was gone from his face; the mind which excelled in emergencies had risen to the fore. His eyes were calm, firm and entirely serious, his tone as steady as rock. "If you can use a motorbike, take Maguire's. All of them are registered as government vehicles and speed limits do not apply." 

He reached into the other side of his jacket, retrieving a short stack of what looked like navy business cards.

"Give to any law enforcement who stop you," he said, handing one over, "and I will deal with them." 

The card bore Mycroft's contact details, governmental security codes, and a holographic strip that no technology on the planet could forge. 

"Call me for any intervention you require.  _ Anything,  _ Lestrade. If it stands in your way, I can move it."

His eyes hardened.

"Go to them, Greg," he said. "I'm a phone-call away. Go."

 


	17. Home

Even with Greg’s career being what it was, he had never experienced true terror until that phone call from his sister. The thought of his nieces alone in the hospital -- and poor Stacy, what a panic she must be in -- made his blood freeze like nothing before.

He grabbed Maguire’s bike from the garage, threw on a leather jacket that roughly fit him, buckled on the helmet, and took off like a bat out of hell. 

He had given out two of the business cards by the time he arrived at the hospital, and used another to get immediate access to the girls.

Stacy, trying to be brave, had met him outside their room. Her lower lip trembled, however, and crumpled into his arms as soon as he held them out for her.

He cradled her gently and rocked, petting her brunette locks as he had when she had cried in his arms as a young girl, when  _ he _ had babysat her.

“I’m -- so sorry, I didn’t know --”

“Hey, hey now,” Greg soothed. “You did the right thing. They’re gonna be okay, okay? I’ll have someone bring you home. You did so good, goober.”

She smiled waterily. “M’not a goober,” she mumbled, the traditional response to her nickname.

He ruffled her hair. “Sure you are. Go wait in the lobby, yeah? I’ll make a call and you’ll be home before you know it, kiddo. It’ll be okay.”

She sniffled and wiped her nose, nodded, and headed down to wait.

Greg sighed and stepped into the room. His heart clenched as he saw the pair of them -- one brunette, one redhead, both with their Lestrade eyes hidden behind closed lids-- hooked up to so many machines.

_ Oh, God. Oh, God. Please let them be okay. Please. _

Standing between them, he stroked Shannon’s hair, then Adrienne’s. “Love you, girls…”

He placed a quick call - well, two. One to get a car for Stacy, one to organize the transfer of the girls to a private hospital. No expense would be spared, even if he had to pay for it out of pocket.

He knew he wouldn’t have to, though. Mr. Holmes would take care of it.

The thought of Mycroft brought a small smile to his face, along with a twinge of regret, or maybe guilt.

_ Sorry to have left you, but… the girls needed me. _

“Mum…?” came a weak voice. Adrienne.

Greg’s heart clenched again. He crouched by her bed. “No, bug, I’m sorry. It’s just Uncle Greg,” he said softly, touching her hand.

“Uncle?” she rasped, eyes fluttering open. She squinted, trying to focus. “Where...where are we?”

Greg swallowed. “We’re in hospital, pet. You and Shan are pretty sick. But you’re gonna be okay. Gonna take real good care of you.”

She sniffled and coughed a little. “Don’t feel good…”

“I know,” he said, trying not to cry. “I know. It’s late, little one. Go back to sleep, okay? I’ll be here. I’m right here.”

She nodded and here eyes closed again. It was only a minute before her breathing evened out.

Greg inhaled, then exhaled slowly.  _ Whatever they need. _

 

*

 

The transfer to a private hospital went smoothly, as all things did when the name ‘ _ Mycroft Holmes’ _ was deployed. Never a hint of fees or a whisper of anything less than impeccable care.

The girls had been put into a private room, with a spare cot for Greg sat between their beds. Fresh clothes had been couriered over for him, someone had collected Jinx’s bike (he had sent a bunch of flowers to her in retroactive thanks), and he had been assured that Mr. Holmes had a temporary agent assigned until the girls were out of hospital.

“Hey, Mel,” Greg said into the phone on the second morning after their transfer. “Yeah, yeah they’re -- yeah, they’re stable, but the doctors want to keep them under observation -- Jesus, I don’t know, some bacteria thing? Dunno, couldn’t pronounce it, anyway -- antibiotics and something else -- I don’t know. Yeah. They’re okay. Shan’s woken a few times and responded to the tests they gave her, so the seizure didn’t give her any damage -- Yeah, same for Rien. She’s already getting antsy, the brat. Yeah. Yeah, they’re going to be okay.”

Silence.

“Another  _ week _ ? Mel, they’re going to be discharged tomorrow -- what happened?”

More silence. 

“Jesus fucking Christ. And they don’t care that your kids are in hospital? No, of course they don’t. Roger --? The same, wait,  _ longer _ ? Seriously? Fuck.” He put a hand over his face and breathed deeply.

“Yeah. Yeah, I can sort it. It’ll be fine, Mel. I’ll take care of it. My boss is understanding -- yeah, it’s fine. I’ll take a week off if I have to -- I know it’s already been three days, it’s fine, I’ll work it out -- well, if I could just send a car to get you without you being sacked, I would, but I’m assuming your problem isn’t transportation --”

Repeat of silence. “I’m serious, Mel, if you needed a car, a jet, a helicopter, whatever, but it sounds like your job is on the line. And not just yours. Yes. Yeah. I’m serious, I can take care of this. Take care of them. It’ll be fine. I won’t get sacked for it. I promise. Yeah. I love you too. You gotta go. Call me when you have some time, I’ll see if they can talk to you. Yeah. Give my love to Roger. Love you.”

He ended the call and shook his head.  _ Fuck, another week at least. What in the actual fuck am I going to do? _

He swallowed hard and headed outside. The fresh air would clear his mind.

He found himself instead leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he relaxed as the nicotine flooded his veins.

_ Christ. Okay. Okay. Mr. Holmes hasn’t met them yet, so I can’t bring them to the house. Maybe -- maybe send a cleaning service to Mel’s? Sanitize it so they don’t catch--whatever it was--again? Stay there for the week? Christ, but I can’t leave him alone for that long… _

Even being away from Mr. Holmes for three days had set him on edge. That, combined with his anxiety over the girls, meant that Greg was lucky to be on his first cig instead of his third packet.

_ What the fuck am I going to do? _

The weight of the past few days -- the dinner with Mr. Holmes, the panic over the girls -- hit him like a lorry. His face tightened and tears began flowing down his cheeks. His empty hand clamped over his mouth, muting the sobs that shook his shoulders.

The cigarette sat, lit but basically untouched, hanging by his side. He didn’t notice it burning slowly towards his fingers. 

He wasn’t in a state of mind to notice much of anything.

 

*

 

His name was 'Johnny'. He usually guarded footballers, and his forehead kept the rain off his feet.

Mycroft hated him more than anything in the world. 

Luckily, 'Johnny' appreciated that his purpose in life was to follow Mycroft in utter silence, ask no questions whatsoever, and try to make his gigantic self as invisible as possible. 

After three days of this misery, Mycroft had started pretending to himself that 'Johnny' was merely an auditory hallucination, weary footsteps trudging along after him wherever he went. The man's bulk and his blockheaded silence couldn't be ignored everywhere, though. Car journeys were now horrendous past the point of tolerance.

This one had been particularly so. 

On account of their destination, Mycroft had spent it thinking almost constantly of Greg. It made Johnny's presence unbearable; the man seemed to take up three-quarters of the car. He kept blundering into Mycroft's thoughts, just by sitting there. Mycroft  _ hated _ him. He wanted to take a mental eraser and scrub Johnny out of this scenario - just have him  _ not be there  _ any more. He was horrendous.

And he wasn't Greg.

Mycroft had thought that a bodyguard would be hell. 

He'd then been sent heaven - and  _ then _ been deposited firmly into hell, and the memory of  _ his  _ bodyguard,  _ his  _ Greg, made this imposter so hateable that Mycroft had 'accidentally' left him at the office yesterday. Anthea (a traitor, who would perhaps be forgiven in time) had noticed within a minute, and told Maguire they'd better go back to correct this  _ oversight _ \- shooting a rather wry glance across at Mycroft, which he didn't appreciate in the least.

As they pulled into the hospital car park, and Johnny reached for the door, Mycroft bit down into his tongue. 

_ I do not want you there,  _ he thought, savagely.  _ You are a usurper, and I hate you. _

"You can stay with the car, 'Johnny'," Mycroft said. (He would take the air-quotes off the man's name when someone forced him to do so at gunpoint.) "I shall go alone."

Johnny huffed. "Sorry, Mr H," he grunted, and got out of the car.

Mycroft wondered if it would be possible to have Alice 'accidentally' trip Johnny out of a window. His siamese wasn't usually amenable to training, but perhaps she'd oblige him just this once. 

Jinx Maguire turned round in the driver's seat, giving her employer a sympathetic look. Her freckled nose crinkled; Mycroft felt his heart tug, reminded of Greg. 

"Give him my best, will you?" she said. "Tell him we're thinking about him."

Mycroft gave her a short nod. "I shall," he murmured, opened the door, and stepped out of the car.

Johnny was waiting to go. Mycroft ignored him entirely, and strode without a backwards glance across the car park towards the hospital doors. 

Halfway there, his eye caught on a figure in the smoking area. 

His heart leapt with immediate recognition. It began to hammer against his ribs.  _ There you are... dear God, three days. There you are. _

It felt as if he hadn't seen Greg in months. Years. 

The urge to run to the man's arms wasn't helpful. Mycroft suppressed it, reminded himself for the thousandth time that he and Lestrade were only intimately acquainted in his own imagination, and approached in cautious quiet.

Greg hadn't noticed him - smoking, lost in thoughts that didn't look at all happy. Mycroft hadn't realised the man smoked. Closer, he watched in desperation as the weight of stress and anguish finally broke his bodyguard down into tears - and the response that burned through Mycroft was more distressing than anything he'd experienced in years. 

Heart pounding, on the surface as calm as a mountain lake, Mycroft reached inside his coat pocket. He had a handkerchief ready as he got to Greg. 

Appearing from nowhere, as if by magic, he stepped close and gently took the shortening cigarette from Greg's hand. He replaced it with the handkerchief.

"I believe I said 'anything', didn't I?" he murmured, quietly dropped the cigarette and pressed it under his heel. His voice was soft, low and full of concern, and he stood close in order to shield Greg from view - especially as he could now hear footsteps catching up with him. "This looks distinctly like suffering alone, Lestrade. I'm afraid I'm not inclined to permit that."

As the footsteps got close, and then stopped, Mycroft's expression hardened. He looked back over his shoulder.

"Wait elsewhere," he told Johnny and his forehead, viciously. "This is a private conversation."

Johnny sighed. "Sorry, Mr H... the brief says - "

Mycroft lost it. 

_"Wait elsewhere,"_ he barked, in a voice of iron, "or go into Reception, call your agency and tell them to send a car to collect you, because you are _immediately fired._ It will take them at least an hour to find some other burly ignoramus to blunder about after me and ignore my direct orders. An hour of blissful peace. I shall savour _every_ _moment_ of it."

The man rolled his eyes - actually  _ rolled his eyes,  _ sliding his hands deep into his pockets - and slunk off through the Reception doors.

Mycroft turned back to Greg, the venom vanishing from his face at once. 

Concern softened his grey gaze.

"Now speak to me," he said. "What can I do?"

 

*

 

Greg jumped hard, startled. “Oh--Jesus--” he gasped, heart hammering in his chest. His hand reflexively clenched around the pocket square in his hand.

“Jesus--Mr. Holmes--fuck, I’m sorry--”

He turned away fractionally, shoulders coming up, and pressed the cloth to his face, trying desperately to wrangle himself back under control.

_ Oh, God. Why did you have to show up  _ now _? With me all a wreck. Shit, I’ll never live this down. _

The flood of pure  _ rightness _ at being by Mycroft’s side again was a feeling to be examined later, along with the very odd instinct to snarl and maybe bash his temporary bodyguard’s face in.

Greg Lestrade had never been a jealous man, but it appeared as though things could change.

“I’m sorry,” he managed again, gasping a little. Tears streamed down his face still, despite his best efforts. It was like trying to turn off Niagara Falls on short notice: doomed to failure. “Jesus--I was just--fuck--”

His body hunched in on itself, unbidden, and silent sobs shook him.

_ No! Pull yourself together! _

His body had other ideas. Better to turn away and curl in than do what he  _ really _ wanted to do, which was step against the other man and just...be held as he cried.

But that was ridiculous, for an uncountable number of reasons. So he turned, and hunched, and shook, and tried in vain to smother everything down and get himself back under control.

 

*

 

_ Oh God. Oh God, oh God... _

_ No. No, you shan't suffer. Not while you're under my employ. Not while you're mine.  _

Mycroft had intended to show up as a paragon of professional behaviour - hoping and praying that his alcoholic indiscretion could be put aside in the wake of something much more important, and he could re-establish more proper conduct towards Lestrade. Three days apart, and he'd convinced himself that he'd imagined half of it. He'd been a drunken idiot, no more, and his first priority was to demonstrate to Lestrade that he wouldn't be subjected to such over-familiarity from his employer again.

Then he found himself standing in a hospital car park, his heart breaking as Greg wept, wrapping his arms around the man without a thought. 

_ Oh sweet Christ, no! No, for the love of -  _

It was too late. His brain collapsed into despair as his arms, quite prepared to make their own decisions, encircled Greg and began to rub between his shoulders. The touch was calm, repetitive and slow, over and over in the rhythm of a heartbeat at rest.

Mycroft's chest ached as he spoke.

"Listen to me," he said, softly. These words were private. They were a shelter, and he held Greg as tightly as he would hold a family member, his own heart banging hard against the front of his chest. "Focus on your breathing, and listen to a professional politician."

He closed his eyes, and let the words come easily and slow.

"You fear that you're weak," he said. "You _are,_ Lestrade. Everyone of us has a weakness strong enough to cripple us, and yours is your family. You cannot force yourself not to have it. You cannot function around it. You cannot storm your way through it. What you can do is choose your allies with care, and they will stand guard while you are weak. It is _all_ that you can do. You are not superhuman, and I am sorry to be the one to inform you."

Mycroft's chest expanded as he breathed, willing the poor man to listen. 

"You will have to show your weakness to someone," he murmured. "If you don't, you will inadvertently show it to everyone. Make a wise choice in your witness, fall apart, express what you need, and strength will return. Anthea has seen me in states of emotional distress that I can't even begin to illustrate to you. You would put yourself between me and someone who wanted me dead, Lestrade. Now I ask you to breathe, to fall apart, and to express to me what you need."

 

*

 

That was the end. Arms around him - that calm, soothing voice saying the perfect words - the gentle touch - the embrace -

Greg was lost. Well and truly lost.

He leaned against Mycroft, curled against him, and grabbed the front of his jacket, crumpling the expensive fabric in his shaking fists. He bowed his head, and let go.

He let it all wash through him and over him and out of him, crying harder than he had in years, perhaps ever. It was mortifying, and crippling, and freeing, and relieving.

Unbidden, his arms sank down to pull Mycroft into a tight, desperate embrace.

_ Hold me. Jesus, please. Please. Just for a little while longer. _

All of his fear over the girls, the panic and anxiety and worry and fierce, aching love, all of it came out. He couldn’t bring himself to care that he was ruining a bespoke suit, or that it was his  _ employer _ he was crying on --

All he cared about was how perfectly they fit together, and how nice it felt to be  _ held _ . Just for a little while. 

Always the protector, never the protected, Greg let himself break.

Just for a little while.

It was an embarrassingly long time before his tears subsided. Even then, Greg couldn’t bring himself to pull away. He simply stood there, arms around the other man, forehead against his shoulder, and breath still hitching occasionally with the last dregs of emotion. 

 

*

 

_ There.  _

_ There, now. Hush now.  _

Mycroft let his eyes stay shut as he held Lestrade, protecting him quietly inside his grief. He kept his fingertips rubbing at the same easy pace, gently monitoring Lestrade’s heart-rate through a hand on the back of his neck, feeling it finally begin to slow.  _ God help me, you poor man. _ It was heart-wrenching to witness. 

Not for the first time, Mycroft wondered who Lestrade had let down.

He had a feeling hospitals were involved - or perhaps merely should have been. 

It was not his business; he let it drift from his mind. Whatever old grief this incident had triggered, it was Lestrade’s to share - not Mycroft’s to seek out. 

The girls, to his knowledge, were now stable and improving - their care was being overseen by specialists who’d dealt with similar cases, and they had every hope of a full recovery. The medical team had been given instructions to contact Mycroft if their condition should worsen.

The unthinkable, then, had not happened. 

Suppressing the instinct to kiss Lestrade on the forehead like a child, Mycroft inclined his mouth gently to his ear. 

“Is this relief,” he asked, his voice quiet, “or has there been some development?”

He did not let Lestrade go. 

He wouldn’t be doing so until Lestrade understood. 

 

*

 

Greg hiccuped a little, turning his head a little to better rest against the other man’s shoulder. His eyes hurt, his head hurt, and he felt like he could sleep for a year, but he felt - better. Cleaner. Fragile, still.

His throat worked a moment as he found his voice.

“Bit of both?” he offered. “Glad - really glad - that they’re - they’re getting better. But --” A large inhale,  _ don’t start again, don’t start again, breathe, _ there, “-- Mel and Roger can’t -- they can’t come back f-for a week, at least. Shan and Rien are - they’re good to leave t-tomorrow, don’t want them to stay in h-hospital for longer than they gotta, but --”

Nope. There he went again. He sobbed and hugged Mycroft tightly.

“Don’t know what to  _ do, _ ” he cried, voice breaking with despair. “Can’t leave you, can’t leave them -- fuck,  _ fuck _ \--” His voice cracked, and he dissolved into sobs again.

 

*

 

Mycroft let him sob for a little longer - the man was stressed to hell, crippled under his own guilt and certainly hadn’t been sleeping. This all needed to be released, and the fastest biological process was tears. He needed the rush of calm that came after fear. He’d wound himself into knots, and he was a beautiful mess. 

“Hush...” Mycroft murmured at last, his arms losing none of their tightness, his voice none of its calm. “A matter of logistics... no more. Quite easily solved.”

He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the man’s hair - unfamiliar shampoo - and realised he’d been used to Lestrade smelling of home. 

As he spoke he kept his breathing slow and measured, hoping for Lestrade to relax into the easier rhythm. 

“I am quite fine,” he said, gently. “The charming Johnny and I are getting along like a house on fire. We’ve been painting each other’s toenails and watching  _ Grease _ every evening. It’s been a delight.”

He let Lestrade feel his smile against his temple.

“And I’m quite certain he’ll be more than a match for an assassin who doesn’t exist,” he added, wryly. 

 

*

 

“Oh, Jesus,” Greg managed, laughing wetly. He smiled through the tears. “House on fire - m-major property losses, lots of screaming, and the n-need for professionals to control the damage, huh?”

He swallowed and huffed a laugh. “He calls you  _ Mr H. _ You must hate him.”

_ Tell me he’s awful. Tell me you want me to come home. _

His breathing was starting to ease, matched to Mycroft’s. He let his eyes slip shut, feeling the weight of exhaustion and emotional release finally catch up to him.

He still couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Maybe it was improper, maybe it was embarrassing, but Hell, it felt  _ right _ .

And he needed a bit of right at the moment.

 

*

 

“Anthea is battling the flames as we speak,” Mycroft said, soothingly. “I’m sure she’s been able to save at least one of the wings...”

He smiled, feeling Lestrade begin to adopt the rhythm of his breathing.  _ A little longer, _ he thought.  _ To be certain.  _

The fiction of the magnificent Johnny was impossible to sustain. Mycroft gave a sigh, touched with the beginnings of a laugh, and admitted,

“The man is uniquely intolerable... I despise him with a fury I can’t quite put into words. He’s filled my bathroom with Lynx Africa and he trims his pubic hair in the sink. He broke the alarm system within three hours of arriving, and yesterday I caught him asleep outside my meeting with the Prime Minister. If I were under any kind of actual threat, I might be worried... but, as things are, Lestrade, I’m certain I can survive a single week outside of your care.”

His heart ached a little; he said it before he could bring himself to stop it. 

“As much as I will feel your absence.”

 

*

 

_ Jesus Christ.  _

“M’embarrassed that the guy calls himself a security professional,” Greg chuckled. A pause. “Well, he probably  _ doesn’t _ . Probably calls himself a bodyguard. But you know what I mean. Makes the rest of us look bad.”

Frankly, he was impressed the guy had lasted this long. Mr. Holmes wasn’t the type to suffer fools gladly, and Johnny was clearly a fool.

The broken alarm system sent a spike of worry through Greg’s already on-edge system, but it was the  _ As much as I will feel your absence _ that sealed it.

_ You miss me. God, you miss me. Thank Christ _ .

It made him feel a little less pathetic for missing Mycroft, knowing that the feeling was mutual.

“Can’t leave you to a guy who prob’ly can’t tie his shoes,” he murmured. He sniffed a little, feeling calmer and more relaxed. 

“I’ll figure something out. S’like I said - can’t concentrate on them if I’m worried about you, yeah?” His head nuzzled Mycroft’s shoulder against his express wishes.

Hopefully the man would take it as him wiping his eyes.

“Maybe I’ll just… spend as much time as I can with them. Stacy c’n watch them while I’m with you…” It would be nerve-wracking and exhausting, driving or being driven between the two locations, but Greg could do it. With the girls, he’d be worried about Mr. Holmes, and vice versa.

He’d be a wreck by the time Melody came home, but he could do it. He didn’t particularly think Mr. Holmes would want two sick, miserable little girls in his home for a week, as ideal as it would be for Greg.

 

*

 

The nuzzle against his shoulder rather tightened Mycroft's heart. He listened, uneasily, as Lestrade expressed his intention to exhaust himself into an utter wreck. 

"The young lady who was watching them when...?" he checked. At the slight nod, he murmured, "Hardly what the poor girl will need... she acted excellently in seeking them medical attention, but I imagine she needs time to recover from this incident. And if something else happened, I doubt that you or her would forgive yourselves lightly."

Mycroft paused, thinking. 

_ Insanity... no. Surely not.  _

_ For a week? _

_ For an employee? _

_ As if Lestrade is merely an employee anymore,  _ he thought, smiling faintly at the feel of the man in his arms. Lestrade's tactile nature was incredibly affecting. Mycroft imagined the children would be, too - raised in love, comfortable with human touch and closeness. They'd improved immeasurably over the last three days, no doubt thanks to their uncle's loving diligence. Leaving them for long hours now would distress them. It would hinder their recovery, hurt Lestrade, and perhaps distance him from Mycroft - all for the sake of being able to work in peace and quiet.

Distracted as he sought a solution, Mycroft didn't realise his fingertips were stroking a slow circle on the back of Greg's neck.

He breathed in, reaching a conclusion.  _ Lord help me. This is an emergency situation. Emergency measures are required. _

"I will ask you very seriously," he said, "not to dismiss this out of hand. I suspect you will, through some misguided desire not to inconvenience me. So I'll establish at the outset that your service means a great deal. You've become very popular and very loved in my household. I think Maguire has worried for you nearly as keenly as I have, and I can't allow you to suffer this way when it's in my power to change it."

Drawing back, gently, Mycroft laid a hand on each of Greg's shoulders. He looked him in the eye.

"Some parts of my schedule are immovable. I  _ will  _ need to be in London for at least an afternoon or two -  _ but _ \- I can make arrangements to spend most of my week at home."

He smiled, ever so slightly.

"If your sister would be happy," he said, "and if _you_ would be happy... you're well aware how many guest bedrooms we have. If you wished to come h-... to come to my home - with both your nieces, and care for them there, that would be no inconvenience."

 

*

 

Greg heard the slip, and it warmed his heart almost as much as the rest of the offer.

_ Have the girls there until Melody could come get them. Not have to split my time… fuck, that would be perfect. _

The ‘no inconvenience’ bit he knew was a little bit of a lie - Anthea’s workload would increase, at the very least, to be able to accommodate having Mr. Holmes work from home. Steps would have to be taken.

But God, it would be nice.

His hands still resting on Mycroft’s waist, natural and at ease, he searched for any hint of a lie on the man’s face, any sign that Mycroft would regret this offer.

When he found none, relief and gratitude swept across his own face. “That would be -- thank you,” he breathed.

Moving on instinct, Greg pulled the taller man into a tight hug. “Thank you.” This was murmured against his shoulder, and was meant for far more than just the offer of home.

The second instinct, stuffed in a box and buried deeply, had been to kiss Mycroft sweetly, deeply. Really show the depth of his gratitude and affection.

Not that there was any of that second bit. No sir.

“Thank you…”

 

*

 

Mycroft returned the hug, closing his eyes in contentment. The thought of Lestrade being back in the house reassured him desperately - he'd not slept very well these three days, not through any fear of security, but more a general unease that something was fundamentally wrong within the house. 

He envisioned for a moment the grief Lestrade must have endured, torn between the family he loved and the employer he - ... seemed quite happy with. 

It must have been pulling the man into pieces. Mycroft understood now why he'd been reluctant to call - why he'd fallen into this state of distress.

"Everything will be quite alright," he murmured. It was a promise. "Give your sister my contact details, if she'd like to speak to me. I'm happy to reassure her. She must be beside herself with worry."

He paused; a tentative note entered his voice.

"I - imagine you'll feel more at ease, too, in a familiar environment. Most of your things have been moved to my bedroom... I didn't want 'Johnny' pawing at them. It's been unsettling enough having him in your room."

_ God help me, I've missed you. _

_ Quite desperately. _

 

*

 

An angry jolt went down Greg’s spine at the thought of another person being in  _ his _ space, living in  _ his  _ house.

Well, it  _ was _ , at least for the next few months. 

Maybe he was a  _ little _ more proprietary than was appropriate, but fuck it. No one would need to know.

And the thought of his belongings in Mycroft’s room - his photos, his knick-knacks, his clothes, side by side with the other man’s - sent a warm feeling through him that quite took care of the defensive anger.

Reluctantly, for he wanted to stay in the warm embrace ( _ forever _ ) for a while longer, Greg pulled back and smiled a little. He wiped at his face with the handkerchief still crumpled in one hand, well aware that he looked an absolute mess.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It’d be really nice to get back - to the house. S’pose my things can go back.”

He grinned. “Since it sounds like you fired what’s-his-name pretty decisively.” 

He sniffed and cleared his throat. “You better call the agency, tell them you don’t need another temporary agent. Unless you’d like the pleasure of sending away another blockhead, of course.”

He rubbed his eyes. “I’ll call Mel, let her know I’ve got it sorted.” He smiled, maybe a little sheepish. “She’ll probably ring you right after I hang up with her, just so you know. Yell your ear off and then sob in gratitude.” The smile turned definitely sheepish. “It’s a Lestrade thing.”

God, it would be so nice to get home. Have the girls where he could keep an eye on them, have Mycroft where he could keep an eye on  _ him _ …

The world would be right again, for a little while.

 

*

 

“I’m looking forward to meeting her,” Mycroft said, amused, watching with affection as Lestrade tidied himself up. He’d never sacrificed a handkerchief to a worthier cause. The tear stains on his shoulder and the crumpling at his lapel felt more glorious than any badge of honour. “If you wanted to return to the house this evening, we can have a room prepared for your nieces... ensure they have what they’ll need. Maguire can transport them tomorrow. She’ll be glad to see you, I imagine.”

He inclined his head across the car park, with a faint smile. 

“As will Anthea. You’ve - been missed, Lestrade. Quite intensely.”

 

*

 

Greg smiled widely, ducking his head. “That’s -- well, I’m not  _ glad _ to hear it, per say, but that’s… that’s nice to hear. Thanks.”

He swallowed again past the lump of emotion in his throat. Luckily it wasn’t threatening to crawl up and fall out his tear ducts. Again.

“Yeah. It’d be nice to spend the night at the house,” he admitted. “I’m getting too old to spend so many nights on a cot - even a fancy one.” Without the overwhelming sea of emotion, he could feel aches and pains lining up to hand in their notices. Back: aching. Knees: sore. Feet: sore. Head: definitely aching.

A memory niggled at the back of his brain and caught his attention.

“Oh - Maguire - she’s alright, then?” he asked, concerned. “She took ill pretty suddenly. All set now?”

 

*

 

Mycroft bit the side of his cheek, his eyes a little bright. 

"Mm - Maguire seems fully recovered. Startlingly so, perhaps." There had been many reasons to miss Greg, and most of them were far more important than idle gossip. All the same, he'd felt Greg's absence more keenly with each new observation - small pin-pricks that agitated the deeper wounds. The chance to discuss this felt like things were well again, and would continue to be so. It felt good.

Leaning in somewhat, Mycroft said, discreetly,

"I have reason to suspect she's fallen foul of Anthea in some way. Not overly surprising - the two of them are polar opposites of the professional spectrum, shall we say - but she seems to have had the sharp side of Anthea's tongue. Precisely what, I don't know. She's doing a very good job of making herself scarce, and when she  _ does _ appear, there's a distinct frostiness from Anthea. I can't be certain what's occurred. Anthea has stringently resisted my subtle inquiries... rather hard not to speculate."

He'd missed indulging in this sort of mischief. It showed on his face - the look of one reunited with a dear friend, with much to tell them, and much relief that they'd come back.

 

*

 

Greg winced. So far he had managed to stay on Anthea’s good side, but he had seen what happened to people who didn’t. It usually ended in tears, at best.

“Yikes. Poor kid.” 

A thoughtful expression crossed his face. “I wonder…” He glanced side to side, as if checking for eavesdroppers.

“Now, you didn’t hear this from me,” he said, leaning in and smiling conspiratorially, “but Jinx is, ah, a bit taken with Anthea’s womanly wiles. Can’t say as I blame her, really. But I wonder if that has something to do with it. Maybe she came on to Anthea and it went sour somehow?”

It was honestly the only thing Greg could think of, since Anthea was usually polite, if cool, to the perky driver. She had a respect for anyone who could do their job competently, and Jinx  _ was _ competent, if nothing else.

“I’ll see if I can winkle any information out of Maguire,” he said. “Keep you informed.” He grinned. He had missed this; chatting easily with his employer, who was feeling more and more like a friend every moment.

After the chaos of the past few days, it felt nice to return to normalcy, even if only temporarily.

 

*

 

Whatever Greg had said wrong, it was there and gone from Mycroft's eyes in a single moment. 

It registered in his expression as a skipped frame, a single flash of something that had unsettled him - something he hadn't wanted to hear. It was swept aside on a gracious smile, a little less broad than it had been, and with sincerity Mycroft said,

"If you can ascertain that Maguire's alright, I'd be grateful - when you have time. Whatever's taken place, it's certainly not a developing situation. So long as everyone feels comfortable."

He checked his pocket-watch with a glance, then slipped it back inside his waistcoat.

"I can tell Mrs Collins that you'll be with us for dinner this evening, if that suits... and I'll ask Maguire if she'd be good enough to collect you. Six, perhaps? Then we'll choose a suitable room for the girls."

He offered out a hand.

"Until then," he said, as they shook - and though the grip was fond, it had a formality to it. The smile, too, was brisk. "Welcome back, Lestrade. Keep the handkerchief."

He then turned and made his way across the car park, quiet and upright between the cars.

Jinx jumped as the door suddenly opened. She crammed her magazine into the glovebox and looked around, surprised to find Mr Holmes sliding into the backseat. He shut the door with a snap, drew a silent breath, and buckled his seatbelt.

"You - alright, Mr Holmes?" she said. The guy looked grey to the gills. "Where's Meathead?"

Reluctant humour flashed across his face. 

"I haven't the faintest idea," he sighed. "But as he's no longer  _ my _ meathead, I don't care." He took his phone from inside his jacket. "Lestrade is returning to the house tonight... his nieces will be staying for the week."

Jinx tightened his grip on the steering wheel.  _ Jesus Christ.  _ That was... ridiculously generous. It was unlike Mr Holmes. It was fantastic.

But the man looked like he'd thrown out twenty quid with a birthday card.

"Is Lestrade - okay?" she asked, tentatively. Her gaze flickered to his top pocket. The neat square of red that matched his tie was missing. "Glad to see you?"

Mr Holmes was flicking through e-mails. "Mm, he's fine."

The unanswered question hung in the air. Jinx let it hang there, her heart sinking a little.

"Right." The corner of her mouth twitched. "Home then, sir?"

"If you would," he murmured, lost in his thoughts.

Jinx started the engine, made a mental note to text Greg later, and pulled them out of the car park.

 


	18. Best Behaviour

The transfer from the hospital was smooth and efficient. The girls had been installed in a guest room, as close to the north wing as they could be. They were recovering beautifully; two days into their stay and they were nearly right as rain.

Shannon still got dizzy sometimes and couldn’t run around for too long, but that suited her just fine, and Adrienne would sometimes have minute-long coughing fits that left her doubled over, but she always popped right back up and took off again.

It made Greg’s heart sing to see it. He had been glad to see them up and about (for given values of ‘up’ and ‘about’), but was gladder to see them returning to themselves.

Now the question was this: what to do with them as they got better? Shan was the quiet one; bookish even at eight. She was easy: plop her down in a chair with a cup of milky tea and a book and she was happy for hours. While she had her bouts of rowdy rambunctiousness, they were nothing compared to her twin.

Rien was every inch a rough-and-tumble eight year old. Fearless and entirely convinced of her own immortality, she could often be found up a tree or splashing in a pond, looking for fish. Being cooped up inside wasn’t going to suit her well at all.

But that was a problem for a different day. For now, both girls were content to settle in the entertainment den (another unused room that Greg had taken over, this time with a high-end television and sound system, and - most importantly - no fancy or antique furnishings), settled on the couch with a movie.

Once he was certain they were settled, Greg headed to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Going through the motions of cooking (grilled cheese sandwiches for the girls, a light chicken salad for everyone else) helped to center him.

He found his thoughts wandering, as they often did, to Mr. Holmes. It had been wonderful - amazing - that day in the hospital smoking area. Sometimes Greg woke up, swearing that he could still feel that embrace. 

They had silently agreed not to mention it, as they also didn’t mention the dinner from - God, a week ago now? Had it already been that long?

He shook his head and flipped the sandwiches. Best not to dwell on any of that; he was already too caught up in a mire of emotions where his employer lay. No need to make it worse.

The salad came together easily enough, the sandwiches were a lovely golden brown, and the trays looked perfect.

Greg smiled. Apparently, he still had it.

He took the girls’ food to them first. “Alright, bugs, lunch time,” he called as he entered the room. He wasn’t worried about interrupting the movie: they had seen it before.

“Ooh, what did you make, Uncle?” Rien asked, red locks bobbing as she turned to look at him over the back of the couch.

He smiled warmly. “Grilled cheese sandwiches.”

“Mm, my favorite,” Shan piped up with a slightly shy smile.

“Yummy!” Rien added.

He grinned, heart glowing. “Well, I am glad to hear that,” he said, giving each girl a tray.

“And crisps?! You’re the best uncle, Uncle!” Rien exclaimed, fist pumping a little before digging in.

Greg laughed and ruffled first her hair, then her sister’s. “Wonderful.”

Shannon smiled broadly. “Thanks, Uncle. This is great.” She took a bite of her sandwich and washed it down with some milk (plastic cups, acquired for their stay).

He smiled softly. “You’re welcome, kiddo.”

“Yeah, th’nk oo,” Rien managed, mouth full of sandwich and crisps.

A scolding look. “No talking with your mouth full, Rien. Especially in a posh house like this.”

She swallowed hard and said, “Yeah but  _ you _ live here!”

He laughed and flicked her nose. “Cheek! Eat your lunch, rugrat. I’ll be back to check on you two in a bit.”

They nodded and settled in happily with their feast, eyes turning back to the screen.

Once he was sure they were settled, Greg returned to the kitchen and fixed up bowls of salad. He knew Anthea was about, but also knew that she could be a bit particular about her food, so he would hunt her down and inform her that lunch was ready, rather than risk messing up her food.

For himself and Mr. Holmes, two bowls of salad (one with dressing on the side, one with dressing on it) and two glasses of water. There was some fresh juice in the fridge, but he figured he could come back for it. Maybe put the kettle on.

Balancing the trays carefully, he headed to Mycroft’s office. The door was shut, but Greg knew the man was in there, working hard.

He knocked. “Mr. Holmes?” he called. “I’ve got your lunch.”

 

*

 

There was a moment's pause before the call came. "Come in, Lestrade. The door's open."

The scene inside suggested a busy morning - not one but three laptops open on Mycroft's desk, one of them broadcasting a rolling news channel; a number of papers strewn across the worktable nearby, covered in red pen amendments; and beside them, Anthea, jotting furiously on a spiral-bound notepad. 

Within this productive atmosphere, Mycroft was looking rather casual and at ease - no jacket and a loosened tie, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow. The trousers and waistcoat were new, featuring a slate blue windowpane check - of a rather slimmer fit than he was used to. 

In truth, Mycroft had been feeling rather good about himself lately. He wasn't quite certain why, but he hoped it continued.

As Greg arrived in the office, he was standing with his arms folded by the work-table, watching as Anthea took down details. He gave Greg the secretive half-smile that he reserved purely for his bodyguard, and said,

"Once you have that, Anthea, you're excused for lunch. We'll carry on at one, if that suits."

This week, lunch was Greg Time. It had never been said, never arranged - it had simply come to be that way. Mycroft had started anticipating Greg's company just the same as he'd need food or water, and was loathe to give it up.

He noted from across the room that Greg had put the dressing separate for him. The attention to detail rather tugged at his heart.

 

*

 

Greg stopped just inside the door, both because he didn’t want to intrude and because if he didn’t lock his knees right at that second he was going to collapse.

_ Fuck me up, he looks amazing. _

The new clothing was absolutely divine, and the casual state of Mycroft’s appearance did interesting things to Greg’s state of mind.

To keep himself from staring too hard at his boss, his eyes went to Anthea.

She, too, was more casual than usual: a black skirt that flared out just below her knees, showcasing her calves, an emerald green button-down blouse, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and a pair of sensible (yet stylish) black flats.

Her hair was up in a loose bun, and she had a pair of sleek black glasses perched on the end of her nose. When she finished taking her notes and looked up, there was a distinct ‘sultry teacher’ vibe about her.

This was compounded by the slow smile she gave Greg. She glanced up at Mr. Holmes and stood gracefully, nodding. “One it is, sir,” she said, taking off her glasses and hanging them off the front of her shirt.

“There’s lunch in the kitchen,” Greg piped up. “Salad, and the fixings for grilled cheese sandwiches.”

She smiled and walked over to him, the barest hint of a sway in her walk. “Aren’t you thoughtful,” she said smoothly, touching her fingertips to his forearm for a brief moment. “Thank you  _ ever _ so much.”

And then she was gone.

Greg blinked, a little stunned. “Uh.” Blink.

“Shall we clear a spot for the food?” he suggested, once his brain came back online. That had been… rather strange.

 

*

 

Mycroft bit his tongue discreetly at this casual touching of his Greg. The visceral rush of jealousy it evoked was like a foul taste in the back of his mouth, and the effect it had on Greg wasn't particularly welcome either. He occupied himself with relocating the papers to one end of the table, taking a few moments to reassure himself. His assistant was sultry with almost everyone she didn't actively despise. This was nothing to be alarmed about.

With a space cleared, he took the trays from Greg and laid them down side-by-side. Close contact would reveal to Greg the new cologne, too - something slightly lower, softer, that Mycroft felt had warmed rather nicely on his neck throughout the morning. 

(It was nice to update one's personal stylings from time to time.)

"How are the patients?" Mycroft asked, smiling, as he sat down and crossed one leg over the other. "Still comfortable, I hope?"

He'd given their young guests a certain amount of privacy during their stay. They were sick and in an unfamiliar environment; Mycroft had no wish to make them uncomfortable. Their introduction on the first day had gone well - both girls rather nervous of Uncle Greg's posh boss and his posh house, but impeccably polite and very charming - and since then, their care had fallen to Greg. In his absence, the role was filled by Mrs Collins the housekeeper, for whom every single child on this planet (especially a sick one) was immediately considered a surrogate grandchild. 

 

*

 

Greg sat down maybe a little harder than he meant to, what with his knees still rebelling.

_ Oh God. A new cologne, too. Fuck me up.  _

_ Focus, Lestrade. Lunch. Food. Water. We can do this. _

He picked up his water and took a sip, then nodded and smiled. “The girls are doing great, now. They’re already basically back to normal; I’m sure I’ll have to figure out how to entertain Adrienne outside tomorrow.” 

He got a forkful of salad and paused, throwing a wry smile sideways. “I can tell they’re fine because they’ve been asking about you.” And Anthea, and Jinx, but it was the mysterious posh boss that captivated the twins most of all.

_ ‘Uncle, what’s he like?’ ‘Uncle, does he  _ really _ own this house?’ ‘Uncle, why does he need you about? Is he in danger?’ ‘Uncle, is he like, SUPER smart?’  _

Is he, is he, does he, does he, when why how. Fielding the questions without revealing too much personal information had strained the limits of Greg’s creativity, since both girls could get like a dog with a bone once they had an object of curiosity.

“If you don’t want to get interrogated after dinner, I’d go hide in the library if I were you,” he said, grinning. “They have enough manners not to ask during dinner, but after that… Run. They’re nosy buggers.”

 

*

 

"They've been asking about me?" Mycroft found himself intrigued. He fed himself a forkful of salad, chewed and swallowed, then asked - with an amused spark in his eye, "Dare I ask what you've told them? Purely so I can prepare for my interrogation."

The thought of Greg chatting to the girls about him made him feel oddly warm, and unsure why. He liked the idea that he was now known to Greg's family. It would be months before Greg's contract would become more permanent, but his heart bubbled at any evidence that things were moving that way.

He only hoped he could live up to whatever expectations the young ladies had of him. He hadn't a great deal of experience with children - even his own childhood hadn't taught him much about being a child.

 

*

 

Greg laughed. “Not much, much to their dismay. I can usually distract them with tidbits about Jinx.”

He had a bite of salad. “Mostly I’ve told them to be on their best behaviour with you. That you’re very proper and appreciate good manners.” His eyes glittered. “They guessed that already, since you’re so posh.” This was teasing and maybe a little affectionate.

He paused with the fork halfway to his mouth again, smiling faintly. “Enjoy the awe while it lasts. They can be very tenacious when they get going. Adrienne first, and then Shannon.”

He sniggered slightly.

“Honestly, it’s more likely to be Shan you’ve gotta worry about. She’s the bookworm.” He smiled faintly again, imagining Shannon and Mycroft deep in thoughtful conversation about some book or poem they had read, with Greg and Adrienne off kicking a football around.

It made Greg’s heart warm, and he wasn’t quite sure why.

 

*

 

Mycroft's mouth curved at the mention of Jinx. His driver was the definition of an open book - he doubted she had a secret in the world. 

"If only someone had told  _ you  _ to be on your best behaviour with me," he remarked, his eyes shining, as he sat back in his chair and gave Greg a mischievous look over his salad. "Alas, I fear that ship has now thoroughly sailed... at least you've not told them to pelt me with Smarties in order to get their own way."

The instinct to extend his foot a little and stroke along Greg's shin was overpowering. One day, he thought, if he was not careful, he'd find himself tired or distracted and forget to watch himself - and simply reach for Greg's hand as if they were lovestruck teenagers. 

"I fear your niece's choice of reading literature might differ from mine," he warned, fondly, "unless she's rather heavily into obscure academic texts relating to early gender politics."

 

*

 

“How do you know I haven’t?” Greg asked, grinning mischievously. Perhaps he’d have to acquire a couple boxes of ammunition - treats, rather.

He snorted and had more of his salad. “Honestly? She might be. She’s crazy smart. Probably got it from her father, since the Lestrade side isn’t known for being too sharp.”

He smiled softly. “Melody already got both the girls their own library cards, like we had when we were kids. Rien’s not so into it, but Shan worked for ages to be allowed to go on her own. Now she spends most afternoons there. It’s… really great to see. That they both have their passions already.”

He threw a smile at Mycroft. “Seriously. Be prepared if you start talking books with Shan. She knows Uncle Greg is more about rolling around in the mud than curling up with a book. If she gets her hands on another literate person she’ll never let go.”

 

*

 

Mycroft snorted softly, amused as he helped himself to more salad. 

"You're clearly over-hyped me, Lestrade... I'm sure your nieces will be terribly disappointed to find that I'm in fact a dull and verbose ageing politician. I'll have to spend the afternoon inventing various child-friendly anecdotes I can tell."

Dipping a piece of chicken into the dressing, then tasting it, Mycroft's face made the slight twist that said he was enjoying something immensely. He covered his mouth to chew, lest Greg see him licking the stuff from his lips. His eyes glittered beneath lowered lids.

"Quite certain your culinary skills are some form of witchcraft," he murmured, reaching for water. "I could bathe in your salad dressings."

 

*

 

Greg smiled and ducked his head, quite pleased with himself. He was steadfastly  _ not _ imagining his employer covered in salad dressing, or thinking about helping him clean off in the shower…

_ Stop that. _

“They already have some stories of you, actually,” he said. “Some of the more amusing meetings.” He rolled his eyes. “And they’ve probably heard a less-than-child-friendly anecdote or two. They like to eavesdrop on me and Roger because we swear about football and they’re of the age where that’s one of the funniest things on the planet.”

He grinned. “Glad you’re enjoying it, by the way. Figured I ought to use up the lemons, so I tried a new vinaigrette recipe. Hoped it would add a nice pop to the chicken.”

Another bite. “I’d call it a success.” 

Greg had always enjoyed messing about in the kitchen, especially since his earliest jobs as a teenager had been in restaurants. He could make something out of nothing, and having the beautiful ingredients available here meant that he was spreading his culinary wings and soaring.

Usually. There had been more than one night that they had gotten take-away because some experiment had gone quite horrendously wrong.

 

*

 

"When I can no longer fit through the doors," Mycroft said, with a fond and disapproving glance, "I'll be holding you responsible. I hope you're prepared to take charge of my weight loss regime."

He cleaned a spot of dressing off his ring finger with his mouth, took a few moments to eat, then said,

"I imagine I'll be in the conservatory this evening. If I were to have company while doing so, I'd be quite happy."

 

*

 

Greg smiled warmly. “Well, I’m not making any promises, but I would bet decent money that you’re going to have company of one sort or another.”

He swore quietly and captured a dribble of salad dressing that was attempting to escape down his wrist, tongue darting out and sweeping along his skin for a brief moment.

They ate in silence for another minute or so before Greg made a wry comment about Mycroft’s workload for the day, and they were off again, chatting and teasing and generally enjoying the company of the other.

 


	19. Magic Trick

Dinner was a rather quiet affair, with the girls still not quite sure what to make of Mycroft. Greg kept the conversation going easily enough, asking the girls about their schoolwork and their hobbies, and occasionally drawing Mycroft into the conversation, as well.

After everyone was done, the girls cleared the table and helped Greg with the washing up (“Kids clean up,” Adrienne had told Mycroft, very seriously). Mycroft retired to the conservatory after sharing a very significant look with Greg.

The girls turned their own, different, significant looks on their uncle.

He laughed and gestured at them. “Yeah, yeah. Go on. Shan, maybe grab that book that’s been giving you trouble? Mr. Holmes is much better at French than your uncle.”

She grinned and darted off to their room, animated as she only ever was for books and learning.

Adrienne frowned a little. “Does he only like smart stuff? I’m not good at smart stuff.”

He smiled a little and ruffled her hair. “Not to worry, bug. He’s good at talking about just about everything.” He grinned and nudged her. “He and I find plenty of stuff to talk about, and you know I’m no good at the smart stuff, either.”

She giggled and ducked her head. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

They headed to the conservatory, catching Shannon on her way down from their room. Greg ushered the two girls inside.

Shannon, caught by her shyness, hung back with her book clutched to her chest. Her eyes were wide as she looked about, frozen.

Adrienne had no such fears. She wandered around the room for a moment or two, then looked at Mycroft. “Is all this stuff  _ real _ , or did you buy it online like Mr. MacCreedy?”

George MacCreedy, who lived three doors down from Melody, Roger, and the girls, was about Mycroft’s age, but much more pompous. The man wanted very badly to be seen as elegant and refined, and had bought all sorts of trinkets and ‘antiques’ online to fill his house. He was skinny, weedy, and balding quite badly. His solution had been to turn to a simply  _ atrocious _ comb-over. 

Shan and Rien often called him ‘Spider Guy’, since it looked like someone had splatted a spider on top of his head. Melody, Roger, and Greg all tried to curb the nickname, but found it hard since it was both fitting and hilarious. The man was pathetic, and more than a little desperate.

In short, absolutely nothing like Mycroft.

Greg covered his mouth with his hand to hide his smile, eyes dancing.

 

*

 

_ God help me... I could watch you smile for the rest of my life.  _

Eyeing Greg with nothing short of delight, Mycroft closed his novel and placed it aside. 

"I find some of my books online," he said, crossing one leg over the other. "But all of the objects, I collect myself while travelling."

With dinner out of the way, and with an eye to looking a little less formal in front of Greg's nieces, he'd cast off his tie and loosened his top two buttons. The pale blue argyle-print socks were the closest Mycroft ever came to casualwear; he wasn't sure if Greg had ever even seen his socked feet before. A treat for him, no doubt. 

"When I was young," Mycroft explained, "I worked abroad rather a lot... I brought back things that interest me. I still do, when I can."

He glanced across to the end-table on which he'd laid his book, and reached for the nearest object to hand.

"Here," he said, offering it out to Adrienne with a smile. "From a night market in Shanghai... my first time in China. Twenty years ago now."

It was a terracotta camel - nicely sized for the hand, hollowed out inside and pleasantly heavy to hold.

"How old do you suppose it is?" Mycroft asked her, his eyes bright.

 

*

 

Adrienne hummed and took it in her cupped hands, examining it closely. “Umm...really old?” she guessed.

She looked over at her sister. “Shan, come look.”

Shannon looked up at Greg, who took her book with a fond smile, and trotted over. She examined the camel closely, squinting at it. 

“That’s really old,” Shannon confirmed. “It looks kind of like those guys. The--terra…?” She frowned, trying to remember. “The buried guys. That they found.”

“Terracotta warriors,” Greg supplied helpfully.

Shannon grinned. “Yeah, them! Looks like them. And Mum said those guys were really old, and I think the magazine said they were really old, too, so that means  _ this _ has to be really old.”

She nodded firmly, pleased by her deductions.

“Besides, Mr. Holmes said it was real,” Adrienne added. “And lots of this stuff looks really old. I bet it’s over a hundred years old!”

Shannon scoffed, giving her sister an ‘are you stupid’ look. “Of course it is, Ri. It’s over a thousand years old, I bet. Maybe more. It’s  _ really  _ old. Like,  _ really super old _ .”

“A hundred years is really old!” Adrienne said defensively. “Ms. Alison’s grandma is a hundred and she’s  _ super _ old.”

Shannon blew a raspberry. “Yeah, for a  _ person _ . Not for a  _ thing _ . Things don’t get super old for  _ ages _ . Hundreds and hundreds of years.” She chewed on her lip. “Centuries!” she cried, triumphantly. “That’s the word for a hundred years. That was on our bonus vocabulary list two weeks ago,” she added, looking to Mycroft. “I  _ always _ get the bonus vocabulary.”

Adrienne frowned. “Yeah, and you get picked last in gym class, too! You’re not so great!”

“Woah, woah!” Greg interjected, coming over and taking the camel and handing it back to Mycroft before anything could happen to it. He put one girl on each side of him, kneeling between them. “No need to have a row. You girls each have your own special talents, right?”

“Right,” they chorused, looking mildly chagrined.

“And…?” he prompted.

“And it would be a funny old world if we were all alike,” they said in unison. They squished him in a hug, and he smiled, wrapping his arms around them.

“That’s right, bugs.” He looked up at Mycroft and smiled. “So, how old  _ is _ it?” he asked.

 

*

 

The sight of Greg kneeling on the floor in front of him was rather hard for Mycroft not to enjoy, even in the presence of innocents. His feet wanted to place themselves in Greg's lap, to be rubbed. He wanted Greg to sit next to him, put an arm across his shoulders, and let the children play in here as they wished, contented and safe under their uncle's watchful eye. He wanted, later, when the girls were put to bed, for Greg to return here with him and sit in the comfortable softness of the lamplight, share a glass of wine together, talk and flirt - and then take him to bed.

Mycroft smiled, holding his bodyguard's gaze. He returned the camel to its usual place.

"Tang Dynasty," he said, with restrained pleasure. "Seventh-century." His mouth curved, one eyebrow lifting just a fraction. "Twelve centuries old."

 

*

 

“That’s  _ so old _ ,” Shannon gasped, eyes wide. “That’s  _ super duper _ old!”

“That’s even older than  _ you _ , Uncle Greg,” Adrienne said, grinning and nudging him.

“Oi! Cheek!” Greg roared playfully. He scooped her up and stood in one smooth motion, tossing her over his shoulder.

She shrieked with pleasure and wiggled, laughing. “Ahhhh! Noooo!!!”

“I might be ancient, but I can still hoist you, rugrat,” he laughed, shaking her a little.

Shannon glanced at Mycroft with a despairing look. It was affectionate, too, and she was grinning a little. “They’re  _ always _ like this.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart squeezed happily as he watched the two of them play. Greg was...  _ magnificent _ with children. Even though he was hardly the paternal type, Mycroft still found himself rather deeply affected. There was something about a man who loved his sister's children as if they were his own. 

The two girls were supremely fortunate to have him.

As was Mycroft.

"Indeed?" he said, turning his eyes fondly to Shannon, and moving a cushion on the sofa beside him, inviting her to sit. "How ever do you find the peace to read? Your uncle tells me you're quite the  _ bibliophile." _

Not a word on her bonus vocabulary list, he imagined - but they could call it bonus bonus vocabulary.

 

*

 

Shannon clambered up on the sofa, clasping her hands in her lap. “What does that mean?” she asked. “Does it mean someone who likes books? It sounds kind of like  _ bibliothèque,  _ which is French for  _ library _ .” She looked up at him. “Uncle Greg said you speak French, so you knew that, I bet. Mum and Uncle Greg speak French, but not much. Uncle Greg knows I like to read, so I bet bib…” She frowned. “Bib-li-o-phile,” she sounded it out, “means someone who likes books. Is that right?” She tilted her head, red locks catching the light.

Greg and Adrienne were rolling around on the floor. Adrienne had pounced on his back, ‘pinning’ him triumphantly.

Well, until he flipped her and started tickling her without mercy. She shrieked and flailed again.

Shannon didn’t even bat an eye. She was more than used to it, it seemed.

 

*

 

Mycroft's smile widened.

"French indeed," he said, pleased, regarding the little girl with warmth. "From two Ancient Greek words...  _ biblíon, _ meaning documents or papers - and  _ phílos, _ meaning beloved. There are a lot of Greek words in English. Things like 'photography' and 'mathematics'."

The shrieks of laughter from the floor were rather hard to resist. Mycroft watched with a smile, feeling himself adore the man more with every moment. The difference in the girls from when they'd first arrived was remarkable. Greg was quite the miracle worker - their mother would wonder if there'd ever really been anything wrong with them.

Perhaps it meant she'd let them stay here in the future, too.

It would certainly make Greg happy. He seemed to shine when he was with his nieces. Mycroft couldn't imagine the distress it would have caused him, spending this week lurching back and forth between his two worlds.

 

*

 

“Miss McKay taught us bits of that,” Shannon said, nodding. “To help us with our vocabulary. She said that if you can recognize bits of words, sometimes it can help you understand the whole word. Only sometimes, though, because English is a silly language and it doesn’t always make sense.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I like French  _ much _ better, and Mum said that in a little while I can take German, too, if I want.”

She looked at the pair on the floor. Adrienne was clearly losing, and she turned to look at her sister, reaching out a pleading hand.

Shannon looked up at Mycroft. “‘Scuse me.” She hopped down and tackled Greg, who laughed and fell sideways. 

“I’ve been ambushed!” he cried, holding Shannon up off of him. She giggled and squirmed. Greg’s grin was ear to ear, expression shining with love and adoration.

“Death to tyrants!” Adrienne whooped, flopping across Greg’s stomach and attempting to tickle him.

He laughed and curled up a little, still holding Shannon aloft. “Never should have let you watch that documentary, monkey!”

“ _ Vive la France!” _ Shannon cried, wriggling enough to get dropped down. She joined her sister in the tickle attack.

“Oi! I’m more French than the two of you!” he laughed, half-attempting to bat the two of them away. 

He looked at Mycroft upside down, grinning broadly still. “No help from the British government, eh? Typical! What do I pay my taxes for?”

 

*

 

_ You delicious bastard.  _ Mycroft moved not an inch from the sofa, smirking the entire width of his face as he raised an eyebrow at his dishevelled and upside down bodyguard. 

"As it happens, Lestrade, I'm rethinking your employment... clearly I've employed the wrong member of your family. Miss Adrienne and Miss Shannon seem to have overpowered you with ease."

He tilted his head, his eyes glinting. 

"What happens if someone arrives to tickle me in the night?" he said. "It looks as if you won't be much help at all. Perhaps we should move you out of your room, and your nieces can guard me instead."

 

*

 

“Betrayed at every turn!” Greg cried, pouting. He was working very hard at not imagining himself sneaking into Mycroft’s room in the middle of the night, to tickle him or otherwise.

“Next you’re going to tell me you’ll have Alice as Head of Pest Control  _ and _ Head of Security, with these two as her underlings!”

Shannon and Adrienne giggled, pinning Greg happily. They were quite familiar with Alice, who had taken to sleeping with them while they were recovering. She adored being pampered, and for a pretty cat there was no better source of pampering than twin eight year old girls.

“We’d do a  _ great _ job protecting Mr. Holmes,” Adrienne declared, sitting on Greg’s legs. “Uncle Greg has taught us  _ all about _ self defence and stuff.”

“Yeah, but Uncle Greg can do the thing, and even  _ you _ can’t do the thing yet, Ri,” Shannon said, sitting on Greg’s chest with her knees in his shoulders.

“Oh, yeah! The thing!” Rien said, grinning.

Greg groaned. “Oh, no. I had hoped you two had forgotten about that. Your mother hates me for showing you the thing.”

“Yeah but the thing is soooo cool!” Adrienne said, grinning and squeezing his knees. “Have you shown Mr. Holmes the thing? You’re so good at the thing!”

“I absolutely have not,” he said firmly. “And I will not be.”

“Come ooooon, Uncle Greg, you  _ gotta _ show him the thing!” Shannon pouted. “It’s  _ super _ cool.”

“Yeah!” Adrienne looked at Mycroft, eyes wide. “Mr. Holmes, don’t you wanna see Uncle Greg’s thing?”

Greg choked.

 

*

 

_ God help me.  _ Mycroft recrossed his legs, eyeing Greg with unconcealed delight, his chin now propped idly on one elbow.

"Frankly," he said, raising an eyebrow, "I'm offended not to have been shown it already. Less protesting, Lestrade, and let me see this mythical talent you have. If it's any good, I might reconsider your employment." 

He sat back, reaching for his cup of peppermint tea on the side table.

"I do hope you're not going to bench-press me," he added, taking a wry first sip.

 

*

 

“I mean, I  _ could _ ,” Greg offered, sitting up easily and catching Shannon in his arms. She giggled and got out of his lap, pulling Adrienne off to the side to whisper with her.

He threw them a despairing look. They were as nosy and interfering as their mother. Less successful, but not by much; they were getting better at it by the day.

He stood and brushed himself off. “But that’s not the thing.” 

He scruffed a hand through his hair. “Got a pack of playing cards about?”

The girls squealed and bounced up and down. “He’s gonna do the thing!”

Greg smiled and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ll do the thing.” He turned and put his hands on his hips. “And then it’s bedtime for young ladies. You’re still recovering and it’s quite past your bedtime.”

As the protests started, he held up a finger. “Ah ah, no complaining, or I won’t let you watch. I’ll let Mr. Holmes have me all to himself.”

_ Mm. Poor choice of words _ .

The girls pouted. “No fair, Uncle Greg!”

“Then no complaining.”

 

*

 

Intrigued, Mycroft replaced his cup on the side. Playing cards? This could be rather fun. 

"Mm... through in a drawer in the kitchen, if I remember rightly. Give me a moment."

He got up from the sofa, his socked feet silent on the floor, and slipped through the kitchen doorway. When he returned, he was holding an old pack of cards in one hand, smiling with great interest.

He brought them over to Greg.

"In with the emergency candles," he said. He placed them into Greg's hand, holding his gaze with a playful glitter. Lowering his voice, he added, "I hope you realise your employment rests on this... I'd better be dazzled, Lestrade. Otherwise, bench-pressing it is."

 

*

 

Greg smiled, challenge glittering in his eyes. “Can’t it be both?” he murmured, leaning in for a moment as his hands closed on the pack of cards. Their fingers brushed for a moment before he moved away.

He hummed and shook the cards out into his hands. He shuffled them easily, getting the feel of them.

A glance at Adrienne. “Bug, can you go grab some fruit from the kitchen?” he asked, continuing to shuffle without looking.

“Yeah!”

She pelted off, limbs flying.

Greg returned to the cards, doing a few card spring flourishes to send them from one hand to the other and back again, arcing gracefully through the air. It was a showy way to feel how sturdy they were.

Sturdiness would be important for the later tricks.

Shannon grinned and nudged Mycroft with an elbow. “This is gonna be  _ so _ cool.”

Adrienne arrived back, holding two apples and a banana. “Is this good, Uncle?” she asked, holding them up.

Greg smiled and nodded. “Perfect, kiddo. Set them on the side table for now.”

He fanned the cards beautifully and offered them to Mycroft with a sly grin. “Pick a card, any card.”

 

*

 

The addition of fruit to a card trick was already rather fascinating. Mycroft glanced down at the fan of cards, the edge of his mouth curled and his eyes shining with interest.

He selected one from the centre-left, and eased it free from the fan between two fingers.

"Am I to look at it?" he asked, glancing with amusement into Greg's eyes.

 

*

 

“Yep, look at it.” Greg smiled. “But don’t show it to me.” He mock-glared at the two girls. “And no peeking, you two, or he won’t believe I’m really magic when I have you help.”

“But you  _ are _ magic, Uncle Greg!” Shannon said, eyes wide. She looked up at Mycroft and tugged on his shirt sleeve. “You believe he’s magic, right? You just gotta!”

Adrienne bounced on her toes, eyes gleaming. They both loved Greg’s card tricks, but Adrienne loved the conclusion moreso. She was nearly bursting with excitement.

 

*

 

Mycroft checked the card with a faint smile, deploying his most neutral expression in an attempt to give nothing away. It was the seven of diamonds. 

He raised his eyes back to Greg, still holding the card between two fingers.

"And now?" he said, with a flicker of his eyebrow.

 

*

 

Greg undid the fan, settling the cards back into position as a deck. He took the card with a smile and slid it into the deck, making it obvious that he had never seen it.

“Watch.”

Adrienne and Shannon grinned. Shannon gripped Mycroft’s sleeve, and Adrienne wrapped an arm around his hips. “Watch watch watch,” Shannon said, bouncing a little. “This is so cool.”

Greg laughed and shuffled the deck a few times, then did a spring flourish to end. 

Stepping close, a smile on his lips, he put a hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck, just over his collar.

He pulled back, and the seven of diamonds was held between his index and middle fingers. “Is this your card?” he asked, smirking, eyes dark with excitement and exhilaration.

 

*

 

The flash of surprise that crossed Mycroft's face was quickly smothered - but he knew from Greg's smirk that it had been seen. His grey eyes glittered with restrained delight. He ran his tongue across his lower lip, lifted his chin, and said,

"So it is."

 

*

 

“Oh,  _ good. _ ” Greg stepped back and shuffled the deck again.

“Okay, bugs. Time to help me,” he said, looking down. He nodded at the fruit. “Each of you grab an apple.”

They scampered over and each took one, then stood a couple feet apart. Apparently they knew this bit.

Greg grinned and fanned the deck. “Three cards this time, if you would be so kind,” he said, turning to Mycroft.

 

*

 

In equal measures wary and thrilled, Mycroft coolly selected three cards from the fan. He turned them towards his eyes with an expressionless glance - the three of hearts, the nine of hearts, and the jack of clubs.

Meeting Greg's gaze, he smiled quietly.

"And where will you be pulling these from?" he asked.

 

*

 

Greg grinned. “Here and there,” he said casually. He returned the cards to a deck position and offered it up on his palm. “Put them back, please.”

Shannon and Adrienne giggled a little, bouncing on their toes.

He gave them a fond smile. He knew they loved his tricks, especially this next part.

 

*

 

Mycroft did as he was bid, holding Greg's eyes all the while. 

 

*

 

“Much obliged.” Greg stepped back and shuffled the cards, faster this time. A few cuts, a few ripple shuffles, some  _ quite _ fancy flourishes, and of course the spring flourish.

He held the deck in one hand and waved his free hand over it, eyes closed.

Smothered giggles from the girls.

Greg cracked an eye open and grinned at Mycroft. “This is a very important part of it, you understand.”

He closed the eye again and repeated the wave.

One cut. A flick of his wrist. The card appeared in the apple in Shannon’s hands.

Another cut. Another flick. The card appeared in Adrienne’s apple. 

A final cut. One last flick. The card -

Disappeared.

“Okay, girls,” Greg said, setting the deck aside. “Would you show Mr. Holmes your apples, please?”

They rushed forward, offering their fruit. “Are these your cards?” they asked, excited. The cards were halfway buried into the apples. Both cards were red, both were hearts.

Three and nine.

 

*

 

_ Bizarre. Absolutely bizarre.  _ Lestrade would be explaining this to Mycroft later - the ability to embed a playing card in an apple alone was astonishing. 

He smiled at both girls, adoring their excitement. 

"They are indeed," he said, examining the cards with care. Playing along, with a brief glance at Greg, Mycroft added, "Though I note that you seem to have lost my third card, Lestrade. Such a shame. It was an almost perfect trick."

 

*

 

“Mm, almost perfect,” Greg agreed, making a slightly disappointed face. His shoulder slumped and he sighed, enhancing the movements for dramatic effect. 

“Ah well. Maybe a banana would make up for it?” he suggested. He nodded at the final piece of fruit on the side table.

Shannon giggled, grabbed it, and brought it over to Mycroft. “Here!” she said, grinning widely as she offered it.

 

*

 

Mycroft smiled, taking the banana from the little girl with bright eyes.

"Thank you, Shannon. How kind," he said. He resumed his seat on the sofa, unpeeling the banana as casually as he could. "Well, Lestrade, you didn't miss your calling to become a magician. You tried your best though, and I suppose that's what really - "

 

*

 

“Oh, what’s that?” Greg asked, reaching forward and poking at the tip of the banana. “That doesn’t look edible. Hold on.”

He grabbed hold of something and wiggled it out of the banana, leaving a hole within the fruit.

Adrienne and Shannon squealed, jumping up and down and clapping their hands. “Unroll it, unroll it!”

Greg smiled and wiped it clean on his shirt, then unrolled the object.

It was a tightly rolled card - 

The jack of clubs.

Greg grinned and held it up. “Is this your final card, Mr. Holmes?” he asked, eyes bright.

 

*

 

_ Ludicrous man.  _ The children's excitement was infectious; Mycroft smiled, confirming his card choice, and delighted in how pleased they were. To them, it was quite clear that their uncle was a sorcerer of some kind - even if one with banana now smeared down his shirt. Seeing small people adore Lestrade to that degree was very moving. The logical implications of the trick were rather concerning - that Lestrade had pre-embedded playing cards into various bits of fruit around the house, purely in the hope that he would someday be called upon to produce the jack of clubs from inside a banana - but Mycroft supposed that the joy of young children justified such curious behaviour. He made a mental note to have Anthea replace all the fruit bowls before any other guests came round.

Sitting back on the sofa, sipping his peppermint tea, Mycroft gave his bodyguard a look of wry amusement over the rim.

"I'm relieved that you use your powers for good, Lestrade. Heaven only knows the chaos you could cause, if you ever turn your magical arts to evil."

 

*

 

“I think I cause plenty of chaos without my sorcery, thanks,” Greg said, grinning.

_ One last trick _ .

“Like so,” he said, leaning in and ‘taking’ something from behind Mycroft’s ear.

It was an orange Smartie.

Greg grinned and dropped it in his hand, winking cheekily before turning to the girls.

Adrienne pouted. “Why does Mr. Holmes get a Smartie and not us?”

“Because Mr. Holmes is an adult,” he said, hoisting her up onto his hip. “And you’re fighting of the last of your nastiness. Smarties after lunch tomorrow, I promise.”

“ _ Super _ promise?” Shannon asked.

He smiled and picked her up on his other hip. “Super promise, bug.” He looked over his shoulder at his employer. “I’ve gotta get these two washed up and tucked in. Try not to get murdered in the meantime, yeah?”

Greg was very steadfastly not thinking about he and Mycroft bathing the girls together, settling them down and then going to bed, themselves. Definitely not. Wasn’t on his radar in the least.

 

*

 

The orange Smartie had vanished. Mycroft was returning to his book, drawing his feet onto the sofa with a smile. 

"I'm on a forty-five-year winning streak so far, Lestrade... I should last another hour or so without your help." Rearranging his cushion, he settled into place. "I look forward to the bench-pressing at some other point."

 

*

 

Greg sniggered. A plan was already formulating in his head. “Glad to hear it, sir,” he said, heading out with the two girls on his hips.

 


	20. Pattern of Five

An hour later, in a fresh set of clothes, Greg entered the conservatory, looking rather bedraggled and put-out. His hair was damp, as though someone had splashed water at him. Repeatedly.

“Okay, they  _ must _ be doing better,” he groaned, sitting down in a chair opposite the sofa. “Neither one of them wanted a bath. Mrs. Collins is going to be put out that I had to use most of the towels to clean up the splashing flood.”

He exhaled and ruffled his own hair. “And then, of course, they ‘ _ weren’t tired, Uncle Greg, can’t we stay up just a little longer?’ _ Had to read to them in French just to get them to settle down...”

With a tired smile, he leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. “But they’re out for the count now. They’ll be right as rain in the morning.”

It was a good feeling, sitting here quietly, Mycroft in socked feet, the girls upstairs asleep. It felt… cosy. Comforting.

Like home.

 

*

 

Mycroft smiled, tired but amused by the state of his bodyguard. It sounded like he'd missed out on all the evening's fun. He closed his book around its mark, put it aside with a slight stretch, and rubbed briefly at the side of his neck.

Alice, curled up asleep on his stomach, did not stir.

"I wouldn't get comfortable, if I were you," he warned, eyeing Lestrade from across the lamplit space. Humour glinted in his warm grey gaze. "Seeing as it's time for  _ my _ bath now, and I intend to be just as truculent... I'm also far more likely to correct your French while you read to me."

His feet stretched inside their socks, his toes splaying wide.

"Have you checked beneath my bed for monsters?" he enquired, and stifled a yawn. "I shan't sleep until you have."

 

*

 

Greg laughed and stifled a yawn of his own. “No rest for the wicked, hm?” he said, amused.

“Better be careful, I guess, you’re a bit taller than the girls. Get pulled into the bath, myself, I’m sure.” His eyes glinted in the low light.

And wasn’t that a thought, the two of them, sharing a bath. 

_ Nope. Nope. Nope. _

He stretched leisurely. “I’ll check for monsters, I promise.” He grinned. “Lecture them in terrible French until they run screaming, cursing my grammar and pronunciation. You’ll be quite safe.”

As teasing as the words were, they were sincere, too. Greg wouldn’t allow harm of any kind to come to his employer.

He smiled sleepily at the other man, feeling quite content.

 

*

 

Mycroft huffed, regarding him with sleepy mirth.

"Seeing as you'd have to successfully manhandle me into the bath before I could pull you into it as well, that hardly seems a likely outcome... I admire your confidence, though. Full marks for ambitious attitude."

Alice finally stirred, stretched out on her side with a shiver, and squirmed up to nuzzle beneath her papa's chin. Mycroft's face opened in a smile. He began to stroke her gently, ruffling his long fingers along her arched back as she trilled against his collarbones.

"I know, sweetheart," he murmured, fond. "I applaud his adorable hubris too. But he'd no sooner have me in the bath than he'd have you in there, would he?" 

He began to tickle behind her ear; Alice keened, happily. 

"And I imagine the method of resistance would be much the same," her papa went on. "Namely hissing, biting, an ill-fated chase and then hiding in the airing cupboard."

 

*

 

_ Hiding in the airing cupboard _ . Now there was an idea. Greg filed it away with the rest of his plan for earlier.

For now, another plan was starting to bubble at the back of his mind. The consequences would probably involve an injury or two to his person, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

While Mycroft was thoroughly engaged with Alice, Greg stood casually. A long stretch, as if he were limbering up for something.

He sauntered over to the couch, posture easy. “Kinda sounds like you don’t think I could do it,” he said, the hint of a drawl in his tone. “Like a challenge.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes glinted. He stayed quite still.  _ Surely not. _

"You wouldn't dare," he said, in a tone that suggested he was something like sixty-five-percent certain. 

The eyes said it was perhaps nearer forty per cent.

 

*

 

Greg smirked. “You really ought to know better than that by now, sir.”

And in one smooth motion, borne from years of picking up squirming children and uncooperative clients, he scooped both cat and man into his arms, carrying them bridal style.

He grinned, eyes bright with it.

 

*

 

As Mycroft found himself hefted into the air, his eyes flashed wildly and he let out a sound halfway between a yelp and a laugh. Alice made an oddly similar noise. 

"Christ almighty, man...!" he gasped. "You're - " 

_ Strong. Magnificent.  _

_ Now carry me off to bed and ravish me, this instant.  _

_ Though perhaps without the cat present.  _

"How in hell do you - ? Put me down before you hospitalise yourself, Lestrade. They'll send that horrendous temporary oaf back." He looked into his bodyguard's eyes, his own dancing with delight. "If you dare attempt to put me in a bath, you'll be severely sorry. I guarantee it."

 

*

 

Greg grinned, shifting the weight in his arms without any apparent discomfort. “Don’t worry, I drained the bath already,” he said, eyes glittering. “Although now I’m kind of wondering exactly  _ what _ you would do to make me sorry.”

_ Don’t think about that. Concentrate. _

He bit back the urge to nuzzle ( _ and/or kiss _ his brain supplied, unhelpfully) the man in his arms.

He looked at Alice. “You ready for bed, sweet thing? It’s awfully late, and your papa has a long day ahead of him tomorrow. He’s gotta rest up, doesn’t he? Think we should take the pair of you to bed?”

 

*

 

For one wild and wonderful moment, Mycroft was quite certain Greg had called him 'sweet thing'.

He'd never been quite so ready for bed in his life.

Alice, happy just to be involved in this moment, made a happy bubbling noise and stretched up to nudge beneath Greg's chin with her nose, sniffing at his stubble.

"I think that might be a yes," Mycroft interpreted, fighting a smile with all his might. He found himself praying that he wasn't about to wake up - praying that this really was happening, and he was about to be carried off to bed by Greg Lestrade like it was their damn wedding night.

 

*

 

“Oh, good.” Greg glanced at Mycroft and smiled, eyes half-lidded.

“Put your arms around my neck. I’d hate to drop either one of you. It’d look terrible on my CV, you know.”

He set off at a slow pace, readjusting to balance the weight. It had been some time since he had had to carry anything much larger than the girls, but hey. That’s what the gym was for.

In his heart of hearts, Greg was  _ extremely _ glad he had kept up his weightlifting regime. Being able to carry Mycroft like this was practically a dream come true. Solid weight in his arms, the surprise, the whiff of his cologne ( _ no, don’t think about that, can’t have the knees going now _ ), everything about it was Heaven.

He didn’t want it to end, which was maybe a little bit of why his steps were slower than normal.

 

*

 

_ Oh, God... oh God, oh God... _

Suppressing a smile, Mycroft duly looped his arms around Greg's neck.  _ Oh God.  _ The man was ridiculous - this was lunacy.

It was wonderful.

Mycroft couldn't bring himself to stop it. He'd never been carried somewhere in his life - and the sensation of being held in the man's arms, safe against his chest, was so evocative that Mycroft suspected he wouldn't be sleeping for some time. 

_ Christ alive... speak. Speak to him.  _

"This is a practice for the first fire we have, is it?" he said, watching Greg with softly glittering eyes. "More efficient if you evacuate Alice and myself from the building at once?"

_ Oh, lord Jesus. He'll have to lay me down on the bed. Lower me onto it. My arms around his neck. That is about to happen. _

_ Oh God. _

_ Oh, dear God. _

 

*

 

“Oh absolutely,” Greg agreed, smiling easily. “I’d never live with myself if I didn’t get you and Miss Alice out safely.”

He rolled his shoulders a little to get Mycroft’s arms to settle against his neck. God. Having the man’s arms there - it had been far too long since he had held anyone this closely. It was wrecking his concentration.

“Think of it as a drill,” he said, smirking a little. “We had a home intruder drill, now a fire drill. What do you think next? Earthquake? Shelter in place? I’ll grab you and we can huddle under a table together.”

_ Real fucking smooth, Lestrade. Why not just tell him you want to put him down on his bed, then make him scream your name? It’d be just as fucking obvious. _

His arms tightened, just a fraction, pulling Mycroft closer. For stability, of course.

“I gotta wonder, though - first fire? Are you planning more?” he asked, trying to step over his previous suggestion. “I know your collection is safe, but I don’t think the rest of the house would hold up too well against serial arson.”

And, of course, with Mr. Holmes in his arms, Greg’s brain latched onto the first syllable of the final word.

_ Fuck me up. I am so gone. This was such a bad idea. _

But he wasn’t about to stop. Not for all the money in the world.

 

*

 

Alice - true to form - chatted very happily to Greg as they made their way to the entrance hall, bubbling away in utter certainty that he was talking to her. Mycroft didn't know what was enchanting him more: Alice, or Greg's arms still tight around him. A grin broke out across his face, and by the time they reached the stairs, he was shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Alice... darling." She turned her head to peer at Mycroft, her blue eyes round and wide. "Not  _ everything _ is addressed to you, sweetheart. Lestrade is talking to me."

Alice begged to differ, suggesting at volume that Mycroft get his facts checked. 

Glancing up at his bodyguard with delight, her master said,

"One small issue, Lestrade... I can't help but notice that this scenario you're rehearsing seems to involve carrying me  _ into  _ the raging inferno? Some error, surely."

 

*

 

“Oh, crap, is that what I’m doing?” Greg sighed, not altering his path at all. “Well, I’ll be sure to get it right next time.”

_ Next time. _ Like he was going to make a habit of this.

Not that that would really be such a bad thing.

_ Yes, it would. Control yourself. Christ. _

“Tell you what, if somehow I get turned around in the fire, I’ll be sure to put you two safely with the other valuables,” he said, reassuringly. 

His eyes glinted. “I’ve got it on very good authority that the library is quite fire-proof. You’ll be safe there.”

He looked down at Alice. “Unless you’d rather I go outside? Go hunt down a bat or two, maybe? Dump your papa on the gravel?” He paused and swiveled, acting as if to head towards the front door instead of up the stairs.

 

*

 

With the turn towards the door, Alice seemed to decide that a spot of bat-hunting would be a wonderful start to the night. She trilled, hopped neatly from Mycroft's stomach, and pattered away across the entrance hall in the direction of the kitchen door - where her cat flap would allow her a faster exit to the grounds. She was gone in a heartbeat, a sleek little shadow who would not now be seen until dawn.

"Something you said?" Mycroft supposed, smiling. He gazed up at Greg, rather soft-eyed in the darkness. "If I'm now allowed some sort of authority in my own house, I'd like not to be dumped on the gravel please... my bed would suffice."

He raised an eyebrow.

"If you'd be so kind," he added.

_ God help me. Surely he knows what it looks like... surely he knows this is intimate.  _

_ Surely. _

It felt like weeks since the restaurant. It was, in fact, only days - that glowing drunken evening, a blur of memories and hopes. Mycroft thought he remembered it with clarity. In fact, he knew his mind must have embellished it - added things that were not true, gilded them in a brighter gold. 

It had felt something like this, though.

As if only the two of them remained awake in the world.

 

*

 

“Well, now that Her Majesty has left the building, I suppose you could be allowed a request or two,” Greg said, as if he was granting Mycroft a large favor.

God. One foot in front of the other. He could do this. Concentrate on moving his legs and holding Mycroft steady -

Except that wasn’t helping, because then he was thinking about the man in his arms and  _ oh God that so wasn’t helping _ .

Greg wanted nothing more than to hold his employer close, keep him tucked against his chest for hours and hold him close. Pretend they were the only two in the world, just for a little while.

He began ascending the stairs, navigating around the creaky parts as best he could. 

“Refresh my memory,” he said, partway up, “it was the  _ bed _ you wanted, right, not a bath?” He grinned teasingly.

 

*

 

"You are a scoundrel," Mycroft said, his eyes flashing, his heart heaving at the seams with the man's blatant wickedness. "I've warned you well enough, Lestrade. Attempt to put me in a bath and there will be consequences. I shan't specify any details of the consequences at this stage, but rest assured they will be dire."

_ He's playful. That is all. He plays with me the same as he plays with the children. This is how normal human relationships function - and he enjoys challenging my authority. There's nothing more to it. _

_ There isn't anything flirtatious about him carrying me to bed. _

"I'll remind you my career has only shackled me to a desk in recent years," he went on, leaning his head to Lestrade's shoulder - better accommodating his hold. "When I was younger, foreign agents were attempting to put me in a bath against my will twice a week. Better men than you have tried and failed."

They were reaching the final turn of the stairs.

"So don't even consider it," Mycroft murmured, now openly grinning. "I've no wish to humiliate you. Not sure if your professional pride would survive."

 

*

 

_ Oh God. _

_ Jesus Christ, Lestrade, what are you doing? _

Well. Carrying his boss to bed, Greg’s brain pointed out, not terribly helpfully. 

Flirting while carrying his boss to bed, that too. Flirting and being playful.

_ This was a crap idea. _

Only he couldn’t really believe that, not truly. Not with a handsome, playful man in his arms, grinning at him and threatening the most dire of consequences if he didn’t do as he was told. 

Which, of course, only made Greg want to dump him in the bath all that much more.

Maybe some other time.

_ Or not. Definitely not. Bad idea _ .

Was it really though?

_ Yes! Yes, that is a bad idea!  _

It was hard to think that with any seriousness. With how perfectly they fit together, the man’s head on his shoulder as if it had been made to go there, just the right weight and height to be solid in Greg’s arms… It was hard to convince himself that this had been anything but a brilliant idea, and that doing it again was anything less than genius.

He turned his head, just a little, so he could glance at Mycroft’s face. The fact that it brought his lips near the man’s temple was sheer coincidence. “I assure you, sir, my professional pride has taken larger blows than that. In fact -”

They ascended the final landing, and Greg’s trained eye noticed the figure in the hallway straight away.

It was small, female, and brunette. 

Adrienne, up and sleepy, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

_ Oh, FUCK _ .

 

*

 

As Greg's mouth tilted close to his temple, Mycroft's heart contracted tightly. The whole world seemed to stop for a moment. His eyes flickered shut and he breathed, and the rumble of Greg's voice was heaven, and the words it said made him want to squirm. 

_ 'Sir'.  _

_ Why does 'sir' make me instantly so - ?  _

_ God help me... I can't even blame alcohol this time... how am I going to cope when he lays me on my bed? How in hell's name will I not just -  _

And then he felt Greg stiffen, and looked up, half-expecting a thief crouched along the corridor clutching the family silver.

But the situation was far, far worse.

As Mycroft realised just what he was seeing, Adrienne seemed to realise it too. 

Mycroft's mouth opened.

"Ah," he said, as his arms tightened around Greg's neck. Thank Christ Greg hadn't dropped him down the stairs in shock at least.  _ There  _ was an anecdote nobody needed - not that this one wasn't horrifying in its own right.

 

*

 

“Uncle Greg…?” Adrienne asked, her voice high and soft with sleep. “What…” Yawn. “What’re you doin…?”

Greg swallowed. “Bringing Mr. Holmes to bed, of course. What does it look like?”

“Whyyy….?”

“Because he was sleepy. Don’t I carry you to bed when you’re sleepy?”

Jesus. Just pretend like this was all normal and nothing to be concerned about. Act natural. Hell, Adrienne was probably still half-asleep anyways; there was a good chance she wouldn’t even remember this in the morning. He could only pray that Mycroft would play along. As long as they both acted like there was nothing out of the ordinary at all, this would go swimmingly.

He hoped.

“Are you…” She yawned hugely and rubbed at her eye. “‘Re you gonna check under his bed for monsters?”

He swallowed a laugh. “Yeah, bug. I will. Just like I check for you and Shan. No monsters here. We’re all totally safe.”

“Okay.” She stood, blinking blearily.

Greg relaxed, just a fraction.  _ Okay. Navigated that fine. Get Mr. Holmes to bed, get Adrienne to bed, go throw myself out a window because I am never going to live this down _ .

And then it got worse.

“Did you give him his goodnight kiss?”

_ Lord save me from eight year old girls! _

 

*

 

_ Ah. Act natural - yes, excellent. A sensible plan.  _ All those hours of political meetings, Mycroft thought, spent silently communicating whenever Greg caught his eye ( _ "Christ, he does go on a bit, doesn't he?" - "I know he does, rogue, now behave yourself and stop making me smile.")  _ It had all been to prepare them for this moment. The plan was devised and agreed upon between them in utter silence, and Mycroft enacted it by adopting what he hoped was a blasé expression. It should be enough to fool an eight-year-old, at least. 

_ Oh lord, if she tells her mother...  _

_ No, don't. Don't think of that. This is all fine. _

_ All stupendously fine. _

Just as it seemed they were off the hook - and he felt Greg's arms palpably relax around him - the cherry on top of this particular cake appeared. Mycroft's heart executed what felt like a perfect forward roll.

_ Sweet Christ. _

In the silence that followed, Mycroft's rounded gaze slid from Adrienne to Greg. One eyebrow quirked. It was a look that said, very clearly,  _ what now, Lestrade? -  _ with a twitch of his mouth that added,  _ seeing as this is entirely and completely your fault. _

 

*

 

Greg’s eyes narrowed -  _ shut up, I’m working on it. _

His throat bobbed a little as he swallowed. “I’m - not sure Mr. Holmes needs one of them, bug.” Calm, easy, soothing. No problems here. Just as easy as can be.

Adrienne’s lower lip began to tremble.

_ Shit. Shit. Shit. Overtired and emotional. Shit. Why did it have to be Rien? _

Shannon was a little more emotionally stable than her sister; this would have gone so much smoother.

Just their luck.

“But if you don’t - he’s gonna have bad dreams,” she said, a shadow of a wail curling under her words. “You just  _ gotta _ , Uncle Greg.”

Greg’s expression creased in a wince. Fuck. His job, or his eight-year-old niece?

Well. There wasn’t really a question there.

“Alright, kiddo, alright. No bad dreams here.”

He caught Mycroft’s eye in a pleading expression -  _ please just let me do this _ . One more swallow.

He leaned in, breathed, “Please don’t fire me,” and brushed a kiss against Mycroft’s cheek. 

 

*

 

It took every gram of composure and resolve that Mycroft possessed to keep his face under control. Somehow - by some utter flaming miracle - he managed it, his expression even rather graceful as Greg Lestrade kissed him on the cheek. His heart squeezed itself like a squeaky toy at the sound Greg's lips made against his skin. 

_ Oh lord, this will be on the CCTV. I must wipe it before Anthea sees. _

_ Perhaps I'll make a copy somewhere first. _

As Greg pulled back gently from the kiss, Mycroft whispered under his breath, "You are fired."

His eyes, though, were dancing. He regarded Greg across the short distance for a moment, his face smooth and featureless, his gaze sparkling with delight.  _ You are a ridiculous man, and I shan't let you forget this as long as we live. _

He then turned to the sleepy young girl still standing before them.

"Thank you for reminding your uncle, Adrienne," he said. "I'm sure I'll sleep very well now. I hope that you will, too."

 

*

 

_ Great. This night is going to kill me. I’m going to die. Adrienne, you have killed your favorite uncle. I hope you’re proud of yourself. _

Greg managed to keep his face under control, desperately strangling the desire to lean back in for another, proper kiss.

“Uncle Greg, you didn’t do it right!” That wail was starting to make itself more known. “You have to do it properly!”

There was just the faintest hint of a groan that exited Greg’s lungs, audible only to the man in his arms.

“Kiddo, I ---”

“You  _ gotta _ !” Lower lip trembling, eyes wet. Red alert.

“Okay, okay,” he said soothingly. “I’ll do it properly. I’m sorry, bug. My mistake.”

He leaned back in. “I am _ extra  _ fired, I know,” he murmured. His heart fluttered like a trapped bird in his chest as he laid a kiss on Mycroft’s other cheek, the center of his forehead, and the tip of his nose.

_ Well, at least I’ve kissed my boss before I died. Because I’m dead. Where was that window? Definitely gonna have to throw myself out, now. _

“There,” he said, pulling back, voice maybe a touch breathy. “No bad dreams here.”

 

*

 

_ Oh, lord. _

Mycroft responded to each gentle kiss with another whispered word - to the cheek, "You..." - to the forehead, "... are..." - and then finally, to the nose, "... fired."

He then found himself looking into Greg's eyes across mere inches of space, wondering why the sequence didn't seem complete. Some part of him was braced for something else to happen. 

He realised, with a jolt to the heart, that he'd expected a kiss on the lips. It was as if it were written on the inside of his soul - a pattern of five. 

_ But that's how it goes,  _ something in him whispered.  _ That's how it ends. Where is...?  _

_ It isn't finished. _

The lurch from playful composure to a lump in the throat took Mycroft's breath.  _ It isn't finished,  _ something in him pleaded.  _ He hasn't... why hasn't he...? _

_ For God's sake, am I really expecting -  _

_ Yes.  _

It hurt. It hurt like hell. 

Something in him  _ was _ expecting, and it didn't understand. It didn't make any sort of sense, but it hurt.

Mycroft gazed up at his bodyguard, lost. His face had become somehow much younger and much older at once, and something had changed in the grey depths of his eyes. He looked almost afraid - afraid to look, afraid to look away. Vulnerability was suddenly written in every line of his face.

_ Oh God,  _ his heart whispered, looking at Lestrade.  _ Oh God, if only - if only you... _

Swallowing, his voice tight, Mycroft managed, 

"Thank you, Lestrade."

He couldn't make the other words come - something reassuring for Adrienne, for Lestrade - something to make this all a game again, all pretend, but he found that he simply couldn't.

He was lost, somewhere between a fourth kiss and a fifth that hadn't come.

And Mycroft knew at once, without a doubt, that he would have bad dreams.

 

*

 

_ Oh. _

_ Oh Jesus. _

_ Oh, fuck me up. _

Greg wanted - he wanted to kiss the man. Take away that expression. Assure him he was safe, here in Greg’s arms. Anchor him solidly.

Keep the bad dreams away.

Instead, he nodded slightly, swallowed, and looked up at Adrienne. “Okay, bug. Go to bed. I’ll be in to tuck you in very shortly.”

“Okay.” She yawned and turned back to her room. “Good night, Uncle Greg.”

She looked over her shoulder and smiled sleepily. “Good night, Uncle Mycroft.”

 

*

 

The silence seemed to go on forever.

Mycroft waited until the door had closed - until they were alone again, and the house seemed suddenly huge, full of everything, full of nothing.

He then stirred, carefully, and lowered himself down from Lestrade's arms. The motion was almost silent, as graceful as anything Alice ever did - but without her playful spring. It was slow, and sad, and quiet.

Mycroft's feet found the ground once more. Reality seemed to rise up through him, like water through roots. The last part of him touching Lestrade was his hand, rested on his bodyguard's shoulder.

He didn't look at Greg. He couldn't.

He wanted to say something bracing - something that said,  _ I am not angry with you at all. I simply can't.  _ Those words were too painful to say. There was too much behind them, too much truth, and there was no small and safe form into which Mycroft could turn them.

And so he simply gripped Greg's shoulder, once - and let it say everything and nothing.

His fingers then slipped away. They brushed free of the fabric of Lestrade's shirt, fell gently to his side like autumn leaves, and he moved in utter silence along the corridor.

Like a ghost, he opened his bedroom door. 

He moved through it, closed it without a sound, and in his wake the shadows exhaled.

 

*

 

As Mycroft left his arms, Greg wanted nothing more than to pull him back - whisper  _ no _ , whisper  _ I’m sorry _ , whisper  _ I didn’t mean it _ , whisper  _ I meant it _ \- whatever it would take to make him stay.

He stood only a minute, looking at the closed door. It felt like a lifetime. 

Every heartbeat sounded like the pounding of a drum, every breath was an effort.  _ Wrong, wrong, wrong, _ his soul chanted.  _ Wrong. This is wrong. You have to fix this. _

But there was nothing to be done.

So he swallowed past the lump in his throat, fought down the burning sensation of tears and his eyes, and went to the girls’ room. 

Adrienne was soothed easily, rocked back to sleep in a few moments. Shannon, he turned on her side, to quell the occasional snore that had woken her sister in the first place.

And then Greg went back to his room, alone and lonely.

Sleep did not come for many hours more.

 


	21. Fucked Up

Greg rose a little later than normal the next day. He hadn’t slept much, and felt stiff and sore in a way that carrying someone up the stairs couldn’t explain.

_Up the stairs. Christ._

The memories of the previous night flashed through his head. Magic tricks, and then - Christ had he really? - scooping up his boss, carrying him up the stairs.

And then Adrienne. God. It was lucky she was cute and didn’t know better, or she’d be dead. Completely dead.

_That stupid kiss._

_Those stupid kisses... let’s be specific, Lestrade._

He groaned and put a hand on his face. “Damn,” he whispered.

He shouldn’t have done it. He should have let Adrienne go into hysterics; he could have calmed her down, explained things. Done something, _anything_ but what he had done.

Shit.

And then - had she _really_ called his boss ‘Uncle Mycroft’? Christ. That was a whole other can of worms that he _so_ did not have the brain power to deal with at the moment.

Right now, he needed to get up and out of bed. Coffee. Tea. Bring Mycroft’s breakfast to him. Power through the awkwardness and/or his dismissal. He could do this.

Right.

Getting up.

Greg heaved himself out of bed and got dressed - jeans and a t-shirt, for now, he’d dress properly later - and headed downstairs. He heard no noises from the room next to his, but perhaps his boss was still asleep. That would be good. He needed the rest.

He was surprised to find the two girls sitting at the table, eating breakfast with Jinx. Anthea was nowhere to be seen, nor was the breakfast tray.

Except -

No.

There it was. Beside the sink. Clearly used.

Greg felt his heart squeeze, then shatter. A broken expression crossed his face for a fraction of a second before he forced it back down.

_Shit._

He cleared his throat a little and managed a smile. “Morning kiddos, Jinx.”

“Morning, Uncle Greg!” the girls chorused as he stepped into the kitchen and ruffled their hair.

He glanced at Jinx. “Where’s the boss and the dragon lady?” he asked, quietly.

 

*

 

If Jinx had needed any confirmation that Something, with a capital S, had transpired last night: there it was.

She'd had her suspicions within seconds of laying eyes on Mr Holmes this morning - pale, his eyes heavy with poor sleep, barely speaking. They'd been in London before it was even light. There was no sign of Lestrade, and no mention of coming back to get him - and Jinx had known by instinct alone that even asking the question would be unwise. She'd taken Mr Holmes's briefcase, put it in the boot for him, and slid into her seat behind the wheel without a word.

Anthea hadn't been speaking, either. Not that _that_ was anything new, after the bloody disaster at the restaurant.

But there'd been something in her expression that worried Jinx. Anthea had seemed almost uncertain. She'd kept glancing at Mr Holmes, watching him, monitoring him.

It meant Mr Holmes hadn't confided in her.

That meant it was Lestrade - and it was bad.

Dropping a couple of slices of bread into the toaster for Greg, Jinx kept her voice casual and low. She needed to play this carefully, or she'd never find out what happened - and she needed to know what situation was brewing.

"Out before dawn," she replied. "London... in the office all day, Mr Holmes said. He's going to text me when they need picking up."

She reached for the coffee granules, added a couple of teaspoons to a mug, and gave Greg a quiet glance.

"Can I ask you 'bout something?" Her eyes continued on to the girls at the table, then discreetly away. "In a minute or two, maybe."

 

*

 

_London. All day._

_Without me._

_Fuck._

Greg nodded, inhaling shakily. “Yeah. Yeah. I’ll -- they can go play outside for a bit. Watch ‘em through the window.”

Christ. This was bad. Possibly even Bad. And the worst part was that he had no idea how to fix it.

Mr. Holmes had left before it was even light out - and what did that say about Greg, that he hadn’t heard, hadn’t noticed? - gone to London.

Not a word of it yesterday, which meant that it was a last minute thing. As spur of the moment as his employer ever got.

Great.

“Alright, girls, looks like you’re done?” he said, looking over at them.

“Uh huh!”

“Yep.”

“Good.” He nodded. “Dishes in the sink, then outside. Shan, you need to run around a bit before you can read, okay?”

She made a very put upon face, but nodded. The girls took care of their dishes and then headed out, Adrienne dragging her sister by the hand and starting to chatter about the game they would be playing that day.

Greg watched them go in silence, and jumped almost a mile when his toast popped up.

 

*

 

Jinx caught both slices before they could fall back into the toaster. She tossed them onto a plate, reached for the posh raspberry jam that Mr Holmes had bought in for Greg, and said,

"Listen, it's... hard. I know. Working with posh people." She glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "Living with them, too. Powerful people are the ones who were taught to keep things close to their chests, when they were kids. It's how they get to where they are. And when you live with them, you pick the habit up. You bottle stuff away. You fall into thinking life's like _Game of Thrones."_

She cut the toast diagonally, like he liked, and skimmed the plate across the table to him. It slid to a halt just by his hands.

"It's not," she said. "And if you're used to sharing, and you try bottling things up like they do, you're not built for it. You'll smash."

Looking at him very seriously, she said,

"He's not alright. _You're_ not alright. He's not told Anthea what's wrong, and she's worried - so _she's_ not alright. Have we got a problem here?"

 

*

 

It was a little adorable, Greg thought, that Jinx thought that he wasn’t used to bottling up his feelings, forcing them down.

Like he had never hidden anything from anyone. Never forced a reaction he didn’t feel, never bitten his tongue to keep silent.

While it was true that now he was a fairly open book, had emotional outlets like his sister, it hadn’t always been that way.

He was fine. This was fine.

“Yeah, I guess we might.”

Or it wasn’t. Damn his mouth - going without permission from his brain.

He ignored the toast and leaned against the counter, closing his eyes and raking his hands through his hair, hard. “I fucked up.”

 

*

 

There came the quiet clunk of a coffee mug being put down at Greg's elbow; the scrape of the chair beside him against the floor tiles, then the creak of its seat as Jinx sat down.

Her forearm pressed against his - quiet, calm - almost brotherly.

She took a moment to gather together the strength.

"Anthea wanted to fuck me," she said. "At the restaurant. I - wanted to. Then I started worrying about my job... so I pretended I had a bad stomach and ran off home, tail between my legs. Now she's maybe planning to have me bricked into the walls."

She paused.

"Did Mr Holmes come onto you, or did you come onto him?"

 

*

 

A soft chuckle. Then a laugh.

More laughter.

Greg grabbed a chair and slumped into it, laughing. “Jesus - Jesus, no, not - Christ -”

He rubbed a hand over his mouth and glanced at her, eyes still dancing with laughter. “Knew it, though. About you two.”

He shook his head and put his elbow on the table, resting his forehead in his palm. “No, it - it wasn’t like that. We - Christ.”

He blew out a breath, and tried to find the words.

“It was after dinner,” he began. “We all - the girls, Mr. Holmes, and I - were in the conservatory. And Shan and Ri wanted me to show him some of my card tricks. So I did. Then put them to bed. Came back down.”

He swallowed.

“I… guess we were flirting? I dunno. I was.” He rubbed a hand over his face again, leaning back in his chair. “It was - stupid. I was stupid. I - picked him up.” He blushed. “Off the couch. Like I would grab one of the girls. And I started bringing him upstairs - Christ -”

He cut himself off and took a swig of coffee, trying to breathe.

_Don’t get all worked up. It’s fine._

Even if talking about it made it feel more real, made the guilt and the panic settle more heavily in his stomach.

 

*

 

Jinx listened, half-smiling, her expression quiet and calm. _One of those stories you can't make up,_ she thought. It's how you knew they were true. Conservatories and card tricks. Those small, stupid things that later seemed so normal and painless it hurt.

As Greg drank his coffee, Jinx found her heart tightening. Her pulse actually picked up a little.

"Jesus, Lestrade." She had to say it. "Was he - cool with - ?"

Having seen them playing and flirting the last few weeks, she had a feeling she knew the answer.

 _Christ, did you two actually screw last night?_ Lestrade was acting like they had - but her sensors hadn't picked up anyone leaving the room. She knew when the door had opened and been closed, but after that, the next alert was when Mycroft had left it early this morning.

 

*

 

“Yeah. Yeah. He was cool with it.” _Surprisingly_. “It was - fine.”

Greg swallowed hard. “Yeah. It was - Christ. It was - “

_Don’t say nice, don’t say nice._

“Nice.”

_CHRIST._

“Anyway. We were - at the top of the stairs - I was threatening to dump him in the bath instead of in bed - and Adrienne was awake.”

He took another gulp of coffee, hoping to be braced by it. The hope wasn’t a large one.

“She was out of her room. Standing in the hallway. We - tried to play it cool. She was half-asleep.”

His mouth tightened, staving off a crumpling of his expression. “Shit. I fucked up.”

His hand came up and rubbed over his mouth as he stared at nothing, lost in his own thoughts.

 

*

 

_Oh my God._

Jinx's hand went to his shoulder - settled, splayed and rubbed, gently and quietly as he spoke. Her heart was thumping in her ears. His agitation was palpable. It was coming off him like heat.

"'kay," she murmured. "Listen, he - didn't seem angry. This morning. I've _seen_ him angry. He can handle angry. Whatever he was this morning, he... he just couldn't handle it. He's gone to work so he doesn't have to try and handle it."

She watched Lestrade, quietly desperate, praying this wasn't as bad as it looked.

"What did he think? When she saw you - I mean - was he embarrassed, was he...?"

Adrienne seemed fine this morning, from what Jinx could tell. She was maybe too young to understand what she'd interrupted.

 

*

 

Greg swallowed hard and shook his head. “No. No. He was fine. I mean, we were both - a little shocked. But I told her -”

His cheeks heated.

“- told her I was carrying him to bed, just like I do for her and Shannon sometimes. She was fine with that. Didn’t question it.”

He shook his head again and put his face in his hands for a brief moment. “It wasn’t that.”

 _Christ_ . _Just out with it, Lestrade. Get it over with._

“She - decided that he needed a goodnight kiss.”

Could his cheeks get any redder?

“So… I did. On his cheek.”

Apparently they could. Hopefully the dizziness was just a result of all the blood rushing to his face, and not, say, because he was starting to hyperventilate.

_Keep going. Get it all out. Can’t get any worse._

“Only - that’s not a proper good night kiss. For them.” He raised his head, tapped each cheek, his forehead, and the tip of his nose, mimicking the pattern from the night before.

“Keeps the nightmares away,” he murmured, looking away, shoulders slumped. “So she insisted that I do that. For him. A-and. I did. Stupid.”

“And there was - a moment. He looked - God. I can’t even describe it.” His hands went through his hair again, shaking a little as he recalled the look. So open, so lost.

_Okay. Last bit. Almost done._

“Adrienne called him Uncle Mycroft. Just as she was going to bed.”

Deep breath. Deep breath. Slow.

“And - he got down. Out of my arms. And just. Went to bed.” His head thunked onto the table.

“I am so fired. And dead. Dead and fired. A dead, fired, imbecile. I’m so fucked.”

 

*

 

Jinx rubbed his back in silence for a minute, just letting him breathe it out. _What a mess._ This was the problem with getting involved with people, she thought. It started out so fun - fun like life didn't normally feel - but you couldn't ever keep it clean.

Drawing a breath, she said,

"You're not fired... he wouldn't - " _Jesus, we won't sort this without looking at it._ "Alright, listen... just keep your head down there, and listen to me. You're special to him. You know that? Don't think I ever saw him smile until you came along. Not once. Now he smiles all the time. He's just... _different,_ when he's with you."

She wanted him to understand. She wanted it so badly. She wished she could reach inside her head, and pull out the image of the lonely, quiet man she'd known for six years, throw it big in the air before them like a projection on a screen, and make Lestrade understand what was happening here.

"I can't tell you what he's feeling," she said, her voice quiet. "But it's big for him, whatever it is. I've never seen him like this before. M'not the only one, either. Anthea's - ... well. Whatever."

She looked down at him, her heart aching. She'd better leave Anthea out of this.

"There it is, Lestrade. He's not gonna fire you. That's - probably the last thing he wants."

 

*

 

It was as if someone had put Greg’s brain between channels: all there was was snow and noise, nothing coherent or intelligible going on. Static and fuzz.

It felt like slogging through quicksand: panicking would only make him drown faster. He had to look at this slow and calm; it was the only way he was getting out of this.

But damn, it was hard.

_Okay. Let’s look at this._

One: he was very, very attracted to Mycroft Holmes. And not just on a physical level.

Two: he was very, very employed by Mycroft Holmes. And Greg had never slept with a client before, for a variety of reasons.

Three: he was certain Mycroft felt _something_ for him, but couldn’t suss out what.

_Okay. That wasn’t so bad. Doing fine._

Greg took a deep breath and raised his head slowly. As he sat up, his shoulders moved as if he were settling something, a weight, maybe, or a piece of armor. “Okay. So. What do I do? How do I make this right?”

He would fix whatever it was he had broken. He couldn’t let one of the best relationships  ( _employer and employee, maybe even friend, nothing more_ ) he had ever had slip away, not if there was anything he could do about it. He would fight tooth and nail for this.

He just needed to know how.

 

*

 

Jinx thought about it for quite some time. She didn't want to give him a half-arsed answer - not when it could cause so many problems. It wouldn't just be problems for Lestrade. It would be problems for the lot of them.

At last she looked him in the eye, calm and quiet, and said,

"Depends what you mean by 'right'. If you want it all professional, all clean, then keep it clean. Keep your head on the job. Make plans to get out of here six months from now, and not look back. Until then, go out of your way to show him you're just a lackey like me. Just part of the furniture."

She rested her head gently on one hand.

"Or," she said, "if you want to be something to the guy, prepare yourself to break some professional codes. Decide if you can handle that. Give him space, give him time - just make sure he knows you're there, close. Dependable. Patient. Make him feel like he's safe." She searched Greg's eyes, quietly. "And the day that he reaches for you, be ready to reach back. He doesn't know how to cope with this stuff, Lestrade... make him feel like you'd look after him, if he risked it."

She bit her lip.

"... and, if you do a good job, he'll risk it."

She smiled a little.

"Sorry if you wanted a lecture about professional boundaries. I've just seen how happy you make him. Always kinda thought the guy deserves to be happy. Think he'd make you happy, too."

 

*

 

Greg rubbed the back of his neck in silence. His eyes slid away from Jinx’s, roaming over nothing as he thought and processed her words.

So, it came down to this: what did he want? Really want?

And could he do it?

_Could I be that for him? Keep him safe? Be the man he deserves?_

He wanted to say yes. To believe that. To believe truly that he could be what Mycroft needed, to be able to protect him and shelter him and be there for him.

Keep him safe, in body and soul.

But Greg couldn't say that for certain.

He swallowed once, stood slowly. He put his hands flat on the table, leaned on them heavily, and looked at Jinx. His expression was… odd. Contemplative. Maybe a little sad. Guarded.

“Thanks.”

And then he was gone, off into the yard to go play with the girls.

 

*

 

_For Christ's sake._

Jinx glanced at the abandoned toast and coffee. She pulled them towards herself, ate two slices without thinking and drained the rest of Greg's coffee, her expression numb.

_This is why you shouldn't start caring about them._

_They're just targets, not people. All the problems start when you care._

What did it matter if Holmes was lonely? Plenty of people were. It was the way of the world. What did it matter if Lestrade would have been good for him, kept him safe? Jinx had kept him safe for five years. She'd keep him safe when Lestrade had fucked this up and gone, leaving Holmes a broken mess. So long as he was alive, it didn't matter how broken he was. Jinx would have done her job.

The job was all that mattered.

It didn't matter if every single person in this house ended up lonely and grey and distressed, so long as they were alive. She'd not been brought in to make Holmes happy. It didn't matter.

She dropped the breakfast pots into the sink, headed to the garage and pulled the cover off her bike.

"Least I've got you, mm?" she said, reached for a torque wrench on the side, and settled on the floor to check the chain tension. "Only sensible fucking person around here."

 

*

 

Jinx had the bike gleaming by three o'clock. Covered in oil and grime, she took a shower and started making vague plans for a sandwich - only to be interrupted by the trill of her phone.

 

_Mycroft Holmes Calling..._

 

Jinx answered it one-handed, hair still damp and sitting on her bed. "Yessir?"

He sounded like he'd been awake for weeks. "About an hour from finishing, Maguire. Would you be so kind?"

Jinx's heart gripped. "Right," she said. "From the club, is it, sir?"

"Mm." There came a pause. "Is - Lestrade in the house?"

 _Fuck. Fuck the pair of you._ "Think I heard him downstairs not long ago. Shall I fetch him along with me?"

"No," Mycroft said, far too quickly. "No, that's - not necessary. Come alone."

Jinx didn't know what to say. By the time she thought of something, he'd hung up.

She looked down at her phone in her lap, rubbing her thumb across the screen.

 _Doesn't matter,_ she thought. _Just a boss. Just a job._

She got up, pulled her uniform back on, and left the house within five minutes.

 


	22. Falling

Something casual. 

_ Apologies for leaving you behind this morning, Lestrade. A finance meeting dragged itself ahead of schedule, and it seemed uncouth to wake you.  _

Something... normal. As if nothing had happened. 

As if they could return to the plan, their plan, forged in the moment that Adrienne had appeared.  _ Act natural.  _ Mycroft could have stuck to it, and none of this would have happened. He could have forced himself to smile, to make some comment about thank heavens for the innocence of young minds, made light of it, made a tidy end of it,  _ goodnight Lestrade, goodnight Mr Holmes,  _ a shared laugh and a handshake and all over.

Instead he'd broken apart.

He'd fallen into pieces. Crept away to die. 

Then fled the house this morning in a panic.

_ God help me. It was horseplay. Friendliness. The man plays with and teases and touches everyone. It was just horseplay... and I... I just... _

Mycroft couldn't bear it. 

The car was ten minutes from home, and he still didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to explain himself. Lestrade had just been preserving his dignity in front of his niece after a joke got out of hand, and Mycroft had shattered into emotional shards. There was no way to make light of it now.  _ Sorry I took off at speed last night, Lestrade. Sudden attack of inexplicable mutism. You know how these things are.  _

What possible alternate explanation was there?

Nothing excused his behaviour except the truth.

_ Apologies for my rude exit last night, Lestrade. Realised I'm possibly a little in love with you, and it can only end in lonely distress and agony for me. Terribly impolite, I know. Shan't happen again.  _

Lestrade must have seen it - seen all of it. There was no way the man could have missed it.

He'd probably packed by now. Contacted the agency, requested that the contract be severed due to unreasonable behaviour from employer. Johnny would be here to replace him by tomorrow. It was no more than Mycroft deserved.

As he gazed out of the car window, lost, his eyes full of passing trees and pale sunlight, Mycroft found himself reliving those moments again - the brush of the man's lips; four gentle kisses, and an echoing thud of his heart. Greg's eyes. Those beautiful, soft, gentle brown eyes. 

_ Oh God.  _

_ God help me, I'm so lonely. _

_ I wasn't lonely before. Alone, but not lonely. I didn't know what it was. _

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, feeling almost nauseous. They would be passing through the gates at any moment. He would have to face Lestrade soon, speak to him, explain to him.

_ Perhaps he won't mention it. The advantages of the position will temper his disgust. He'll stay, all the same. And I will treat him with respect, with courtesy, with distance. I'll let the poor man do his job. Spare him my bleeding heart. _

But Christ, how to promise that? How to reassure the man his feelings were no threat, while begging him on the point of tears not to leave? How could he possibly try to deny it?

Lestrade had glimpsed the broken edges of his soul last night.

Now Mycroft would have to face him, and try to make this alright.

As he closed his hand around the opposite wrist, gripping in silence and willing himself not to shake, Jinx's quiet eyes kept watch on him in the rear view mirror. 

 

*

 

In an extraordinarily rare occurrence, Anthea found herself at a loss for words.

Mr. Holmes was not himself. Something had happened the night before, and since she hadn't been made aware of it, she suspected it had to do with Lestrade.

_ Damn the man _ . Things had been going so well; she had even been considering not going through with her plan to incite some jealousy. That was almost certainly back on the table, although she'd be holding off just a little longer before initiating that.

And now Mr. Holmes seemed broken in a way he hadn't been in a very long time, possibly ever. He was quiet, even with her. Little commentary, few instructions, almost no requests. It was lucky she had grown so used to him and needed no direction.

The end of the day had come. No more work remained. All there was left to do was go home.

So they had been sitting in silence for the ride, hers worried, his panicked.

And she had no idea what to do.

They weren't friends. Even with all her years of service, Anthea was not  _ friends _ with her employer. She cared about him deeply, showed it in her own way, but they did not particularly talk about  _ feelings _ .

This was clearly a  _ feelings  _ problem, and that was one of Anthea’s few areas of little to no knowledge.

If circumstances were not what they were, she would have considered consulting Maguire. The situation was not yet that dire, and her temper hadn’t yet cooled enough to even think of it as an option.

Maguire. So open and honest with her feelings, and yet an enigma too. 

Thinking of the woman made Anthea’s irritation flare, and that would be… unhelpful. So she forced her thoughts back towards her employer, and what she could do to help him.

“Would you like me to gather the Witzwiller files when we arrive, sir?” she murmured, not glancing up from her mobile.

Those files were highly classified, which meant that he would have to be locked in his office to work with them. An excuse to be away from Lestrade for a bit longer, if that was what he needed.

 

*

 

It took Mycroft some time to answer. His initial reaction was an internal rush of relief and gratitude, that he wouldn't have to see Greg for a while longer - followed almost at once by the painful, sharp realisation that it would merely delay the inevitable. He couldn't hide from the man all day and all night. Distress of one kind or another was coming. He would have to face it sooner or later.

Drawing a quiet breath, he said,

"Perhaps after dinner." He'd barely been able to concentrate today; work seemed a thousand miles from his reach. Even thinking of something for her to do took him a few moments. "If you could continue with arrangements for the summit in August... that might be the best use of your time."

He lapsed into silence once more, rubbing a quiet circle on his wrist with a thumb. 

 

*

 

Anthea nodded, unwilling to break the silence again.

She was proud of Mr. Holmes, being willing to face the music so soon (even though she hated to see him distressed at all). If what he needed was a safe space to fall apart after dinner, she would give that to him.

She would give him anything he needed. 

That was her job, after all.

The ride ended as it had begun: in silence.

They pulled to a smooth stop outside the door. Maguire opened Anthea’s door first, and she exited the car gracefully. Her demeanour dropped in temperature by several degrees as she passed by the normally perky driver, but she was back to her normal professional self by the time she got to Mr. Holmes’ side of the car. She waited quietly by the side of the car, tapping away at her mobile while Mr. Holmes readied himself to exit the car and enter the house.

Anthea had been no further than a few feet from him all day, and she wasn’t about to change that now. She’d been a quiet presence of strength for him, and he needed that now more than ever.

 

*

 

As Mycroft stepped from the car, he looked pale and felt unwell - more so than he had in months. He didn't know what he was about to find, and it was destroying him. Politicians, world leaders and men of power he could predict, almost without fault; ordinary people, close to his heart, were a mystery far beyond his skill. 

The door closed, and he became aware with a distressed flicker of guilt that he'd not in fact been alone today. Anthea had barely left his side. The rush of quiet, anxious fondness for her nearly broke his heart. 

She'd never troubled him once during her employment. She endured his anger, his frustration and his coldness, and she simply stayed. When he fell into sentiment, she didn't even seem to scorn him - just brought him of work, duty, order, everything he needed to brick the sentiment away where it wouldn't come to light. She reminded him of what never changed.

The strange instinct to touch her arm as he passed arose. He almost did it, before he had the sense to question why - after all these years - such a thing should suddenly occur.

And he realised it was because Lestrade touched people like that. Freely, fondly. Like normal people did.

It brought it all back.

Silent, greyer than ever, Mycroft opened the door and let himself into the house.

He couldn't find Lestrade right away. He couldn't bear the thought - rushing home from work to vomit his inexcusable feelings all over the man. Suddenly, as he found himself in the entrance hall, he couldn't bear being here at all. Panic began to creep across his chest and his shoulders, panic at being in his own home. It was the sight of the stairs.

He couldn't exactly turn around and tell Maguire to restart the engine. Then she would know, too - know he was a splintering wreck.  _ God help me. Where is my strength? Where is my armour? Why am I so fragile? _

Struggling, frightened, but outwardly calm and pale, Mycroft told himself he needed to project some semblance of normality. If he faked it with enough patience, it would settle into place and feel real. 

And it would buy him time to observe - to calm himself.

He would treat this day as any other. He would change, make himself tea, and take himself to work in the conservatory. Perhaps Lestrade would come to him; perhaps Mycroft would get some other indication of his frame of mind. Either way, he could build this around his bodyguard and what he needed.

Lestrade, after all, was who mattered. 

Mycroft had behaved unacceptably. He'd put Lestrade in an unbearable position, and if he now acted with any honour and told the truth, that position would become even more horrendous. Now that he was home, Mycroft feared that he couldn't go through with it - that the truth would be too much. If he told Lestrade his odd behaviour was due to affectionate feelings, Lestrade would quite sensibly and reasonably leave.

That possibility burned through him like fire. The pain was frightening, almost panic-inducing.  _ Please, please. Please do not leave. I will behave with restraint. I promise. I will not disoblige you with my feelings again. Please do not go. _

Mycroft barely breathed as he walked up the stairs. He couldn't cope to reach the top, closed his eyes as he passed the place they'd stood, and let himself into his bedroom just as quietly as last night. 

Alice looked up from his pyjamas. She blinked, sleepily, confused to see him home at this time.

Her paws stretched out.

Mycroft sat with her for some time.

She made quite a fuss of him. He tried to keep her from his face, not wanting to spoil her lovely fur, but she insisted on nuzzling him and drying her cheeks with his. She chatted to him softly, responding even to the quietest of his sobs. It only exacerbated the problem. He sat in the window with her, his feet drawn up into the chair like a little boy, stroking her fur until the worst of it had passed. A strange calm followed the outburst, his stress hormones ebbing low.  _ Tea. Sugar.  _ He could cope. If the worst should happen, and Lestrade had chosen to leave the house and flee his employer's unprofessional actions, there would still be Alice. There would still be Anthea. Things would simply go back to how they were, and the loneliness in time would feel like safety again.

This too would pass.

All things did.

Mycroft changed - not his ridiculous new clothing.  _ For heaven's sake - blue. Why did I...? Showy. Too slim-cut. I am not twenty-five anymore.  _ He felt strangely vulnerable in just a shirt and waistcoat, but a suit jacket felt more assured and confident than he could bear. He pulled a blue-grey jumper from the wardrobe instead, and pulled that on, calmer at once within the soft hug of the cashmere. He washed his face with cool water in the bathroom, relieving himself of the last traces of tears, and at the top of the stairs he found Alice waiting.

His heart aching, he scooped her up and carried her down.

She sang in his ear as they went. He talked to her softly, discussing her dinner - a favourite topic of hers. He would find her something from the refrigerator for now. Some scraps of chicken, perhaps. Something to please her.

He took the side-door into the conservatory, holding her one-armed against his chest as he looked through the refrigerator. There was some cooked ham that seemed to be spare. 

As he placed Alice gently on the floor to eat it, a strange sound met his ears.

It sounded like voices in the conservatory - almost like a laugh. 

He wondered who would be in there talking. 

He washed his fingertips, dried them, then tentatively approached the archway.

 

*

 

Shannon had her cards up to her face, peering suspiciously at her sister. “I don’t believe you, Ri, I think you keep peeking.”

“How could I peek?” Adrienne asked, grinning. “I’m opposite you. If anyone’s peeking, it’s Uncle Greg.”

Greg put on an affronted look. “Hey, none of that! I’m no cheater!”

The girls both gave him a look.  _ Oh, really? _

He laughed. “At Cluedo. I’m no cheater at Cluedo. All tussling and other such activities are fair game.”

As the girls chattered at each other, gently teasing, Greg felt himself smiling. They were always so calming and centering for him, even when they were being bratty (which was rarely).

_ This will be okay. We’ll sort this _ .

Their board game adventure had started some hours ago, when Shannon had scraped her knee playing outside and decided, definitively, that she was done running around, and Greg couldn’t fault her for that. So they had turned to indoor activities that were competitive enough for Adrienne’s taste and intellectual enough for Shannon. The list was small.

They had begun in the den, playing Battleship - always popular. Shannon, the strategist, often trounced her sister handily, but Adrienne enjoyed crowing about her hits and making sound effects to go with every shot. Greg played every third game or so, making them play each other before him (and sometimes allowing the girl not playing to assist him).

Then they had dug up Cluedo from who knows where, and had bounced excitedly about it. He had wondered why, until:

_ “Uncle Greg, there’s a -- a thingy! Here! A conversatory!” Adrienne squealed. _

_ “Con _ serv _ atory, Ri,” Shan corrected. _

_ “Yeah yeah, that. Like in the game! Pleeeease we have to play this in the convers--conservatory!” _

_ He laughed. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go solve a murder in the conservatory.” He scooped up the box. _

_ “Maybe there’s secret tunnels here too!” Ri exclaimed as they headed for the conservatory. _

_ “Maybe, bug. Maybe.” _

And now Adrienne was on her way to figuring out who had murdered poor Mr. Body, much to the chagrin and suspicion of her sister.

“Whatever. Are you ‘cusing someone or not?” Shannon demanded.

She grinned. “Nope. Not yet. Your turn, Uncle Greg!”

He laughed, reaching for the dice.

Movement in the archway caught his eye.

His breath caught in his chest.  _ Mycroft _ .

He glanced at the girls. “I’ll… be right back. No killing each other until we solve this murder, yeah?” he asked as he stood.

Even though the girls nodded, he knew them, and gave them a hard look. He took the ‘case file’ and his own cards, sticking them in his pocket.

“How do we know  _ you _ won’t peek?” Adrienne demanded.

He quirked a smile. “Mr. Holmes will keep me honest,” he promised. He placed a hand over his heart. “I’ll be right back, bugs. Promise.”

He turned and walked over to the man, heart pounding in his chest but a gentle smile on his face. Calm. Easy. Open. It would be fine.

_ I can do this. _

_ I can do this. _

_ Oh, fuck. What if I can’t do this? _

 

*

 

_ Oh, fuck. I can't do this. _

Mycroft couldn't breathe. The gentle smile. That look of calm composure.  _ He's going to leave. He's going to be polite about it. Kind. Explain that it's for the best. He's going to be decent to me and leave. _

His feet took a few steps back into the kitchen without his authority. Privacy.  _ Privacy for him to hurt me.  _ Something bumped gently against Mycroft's back, and he put a nervous hand out to find it was the kitchen table. He curled his fingers around the back of the chair, gave Greg a look that layered distress, guilt and fear all at once, and drew a breath.

He opened his mouth to speak.

Nothing occurred.

_ Say something. Say something, for the love of Christ. He needs you to speak. _

Mycroft could only stare.

_ Don't go. Don't go. I'm sorry I'm falling for you. _

_ Oh, fuck. _

_ I'm falling for you.  _

_ I'm sorry. _

 

*

 

Greg’s heart clenched as Mycroft backed away from him like a wounded animal.  _ Jesus. Don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing to be scared of, beautiful. It’s just me. _

_ Beautiful? _

_ Fuck me up. Goddammit. _

He swallowed and put his hands in his pockets, gentling his posture to be as non-threatening as possible.  _ Just me _ .  _ Nothing to be scared of. _

_ Don’t make me go. I’m sorry. Let me make this right. _

_ I have to make this right. _

Casting about for something, anything, to say, he managed, “Long day?”

_ Brilliant, Lestrade.  _

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart had stopped beating. In the silence that it left, he searched Greg's face and tried to process those two words he'd been given. 

_ Concerned. Casual.  _

_ Gentle. _

He wanted to say it - just say the words, and get it over with.  _ "Tell me you won't leave. Tell me it's alright."  _ He wouldn't relax until he knew it was alright. 

But he couldn't just ask. 

Visibly drawing a breath, holding Greg's gaze as if afraid to let go, he managed,

"Extremely." His grip tightened quietly on the chair. The sound of his own voice had made him somehow more anxious. "R-Rather glad to put it behind me."

_ I know that you know.  _

_ I won't touch you. I won't distress you. I won't impose upon you. I will treat you kindly and respectfully, and I will not remind you in any way that I long for you. I am sorry that I showed you. I didn't mean to.  _

_ Please don't go. _

 

*

 

“Glad you’re home.”

_ GODDAMMIT.  _

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _

It was too late now. Greg couldn’t take it back, and backpedaling would only make it worse. Best to just roll with it, and hope the man took it well.

_ God, please don’t fire me. Please just - _

_ Just give me a chance. _

_ I can fix this. _

He rubbed a hand over his mouth and took a deep breath.  _ Bravery is what us idiots use to excuse ourselves. Just do it. _

“About last night. I -”  _ Christ, just do it, before he bolts!  _ “I’m … not actually fired, right? If you want -”

_ PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. _

Deep breath. Smother the anxiety. Breathe. You can do this.

“- if you wish to terminate my contract early, I understand.” A muscle in his jaw spasmed, and he couldn’t keep the fear out of his eyes. “But -”

A hard swallow. “... Please, Mr. Holmes. Don’t fire me. Give me another chance.” It was just this side of begging.

_ Let me fix this _ hung unspoken in the air.

 

*

 

_ Oh my God.  _

_ He thinks -  _

_ \- thinks that he... _

_ Then it is alright. All of it.  _

Mycroft didn’t dare move. The rush was enough to restart his pulse with a jolt, and he looked at Greg as it thundered through him again, longing above anything to put his arms around the man and not let go. It felt wrong that they were not touching in this moment. It felt wrong that they were apart.

Exhaling with a shudder, Mycroft said,

"Why in God’s name would I terminate your contract?" His heart heaved its way into his throat; he spoke around it, shaking. "I want you to stay."

His brain, functional again at last, finally offered him its services. 

"A miscommunication," he managed, still staring at Greg with pupils the size of pound coins. "Is - Adrienne quite alright? I hope she hasn’t - m-misconstrued - "

 

*

 

_ Oh God. _

_ Thank Christ. _

_ Thank fucking Christ. _

The relief nearly stole Greg’s knees out from under him.

_ He wants me to stay. _

_ I can fix this. _

“She’s fine,” he said, after a moment. “Doesn’t even seem to remember it. I had been - I was pretty sure she was more than half asleep, and since she’s the chatty one, I don’t see any reason to think anything’s wrong. She’s - they’re…” He half-smiled, looking over his shoulder.

The girls were gleefully playing with the bits of the game, the murder weapons especially.

“They’re great,” he said fondly. He turned back to his employer, settled just from that one quick glance at his nieces. “Just great.”

He couldn’t help it. It was only by sheer force of will that Greg managed to keep from walking forward when he asked it.

“Are... you okay?”

 

*

 

Something in Mycroft's chest tugged, wanting him to step close - to run his hands gently along Lestrade's forearms, onto his biceps and hold them, and continue this conversation with their cheeks touching - murmuring to each other, drowning in relief and reassurance and Lestrade's scent, his arms, his gentle voice, and it was too late. It was all too late.

But it would be alright somehow.

Mycroft tightened his grip on the chair, keeping himself back. This was too much of a miracle to endanger it now.

"Yes," he said, realising he was breathing again - slow, settling breaths. "An emotional week. For us all." He hesitated, feeling his fear receding with every passing moment. _Thank God. Thank God._ The rush of calm was indescribable. "I have - n-no wish for you to leave, Greg. Whatsoever. Nor to feel i-ill at ease around me."

He took a moment, gathering his courage.

"Such a thing would distress me greatly," he said.

 

*

 

_ Jesus. _

Greg wanted nothing more than to pull Mycroft into a hug, to rub his back and hold him close, tell him everything would be alright. 

But that would ruin everything. This delicate moment would break and he wasn’t sure if he could pick up the pieces this time.

So he stayed exactly where he was, and let his relief show in his expression, in his smile.

“Good. That’s - I’m glad you want me to stay. And - I don’t feel uncomfortable. With you. Never have.”

_ Probably never will. You called me Greg. _

Every time his given name fell from his employer’s lips, it made his heart swell fondly. Moreso, now.

“I -”

“Uncle Greg!” came a petulant cry.

He gave the briefest of eyerolls and offered a regretful smile. “Sorry. Murder calls. Care to come and watch? Make sure there isn’t any foul play afoot?” A grin. “You know. Besides the murder.”

 

*

 

Normality - perfect, relieving normality. Mycroft could think of nothing he wanted more. He couldn't work for the rest of the day, not in this state. He was barely able to function, let alone think, and all he wanted was to be somewhere near to Greg and know everything was okay.

_ God help me. I am lost. _

Even as he smiled, quiet and calm - even as his mouth gave its pleasant agreement for him - Mycroft's heart was rupturing into pieces.

_ I'm lost, and it's alright. _

He barely heard the words he said. An offer of tea - and as he found himself making it, barely able to believe the miracle that had occurred, he realised his happiness and his comfort was now bound to Greg Lestrade. It hurt and calmed him at once. He breathed with it, closing his eyes, making his peace with it.  _ So long as he is here. _

In the conservatory, he placed Greg's tea quietly beside him. He laid a single touch on the man's shoulder -  _ here - for you -  _ and then settled on the couch, his fingertips still shaking a little. Within moments, he had a lap full of Alice; stroking her eased the tremor in his hand. 

He watched the game continue, feeling his heart ease more and more with every tiny normal moment that passed - every second he spent in Greg's presence, quietly healing. 

Alice curled against his chest, and was soon asleep. 

Each time he caught Greg's eye, the realisation flashed gently through his heart.  _ Fallen for you. Lost, to you.  _

_ But all alright.  _

His smiles grew easier; his eyes regained a little of their brightness. His chest still ached with every glance, every word Greg said to him, but it would be okay. 

_ Of all the men to reach my heart... none safer than you.  _

 

*

 

Some indescribable missing piece had been returned to Greg’s life, and all was well.

Only.

It wasn’t quite indescribable, was it?

It was Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft was back, and everything was alright again.

_ Well, I am completely fucked _ .

And somehow that was okay. Everything would be okay.

He knew it like he knew his own name. The knowledge became more solid every time he spotted a small smile, or a little more light in grey eyes. When he heard a murmured comment in response to the girls’ chatter.

They were here, together, safe and sound, and things were going to be okay.


	23. Professional Boundaries

The month that passed was peaceful and productive. After storms, a calm seemed to have blown in - and before Mycroft knew it, it was June.

The estate was never more beautiful than at this time of year. Everything was blooming and growing, and the sunlit evenings were growing long. Mycroft took to working out on the patio each night, sometimes past eight; whenever he did, Greg insisted on sitting with him. These working evenings began to include wine and conversation, until the wine and conversation took over somewhat from the work - and then the pretence was dropped entirely.

The truth was that Mycroft laid more of his heart in Greg's care everyday, and he knew it. A month of peace had made him feel desperately safe. 

He didn't know if Greg realised what it was. Sometimes, he suspected quite strongly that his bodyguard was well aware of his feelings, and gave him the kindness of platonic and respectful affection as part of his duty of care. Sometimes he was convinced that Greg didn't realise - and that the man would flee the house in a panic, if he ever did.

It was an imbalance that, for now, had found some point of balance. Mycroft basked in Greg's company - two hours in the car each day, quiet June evenings with wine, long and tedious meetings spent catching each other's eyes like mischievous children - but there was a limit he didn't dare to approach. He took pains not to touch Greg. He had a single glass of wine, and no more. If they dined out, he ordered spring water and separate desserts.

It was a simple case of careful watching, reasonable precautions - and allowing himself as much of Greg's platonic care as he was offered. Greg's company was enough. Just knowing Greg wanted to stay, in spite of all that had happened, brought him a quiet warmth and security that felt enough like love to settle his fractious heart. The man had become his closest friend. He saw Greg more than any other person; he wanted Greg close at all times. He didn't deny it to himself. Greg seemed to like his company too, and so Mycroft let it be - and the world seemed content to let him have that. 

Then there was Anthea, and things changed.

 

*

 

The day itself bore no hallmarks that a problem was about to begin. A rather rainy Sunday had rolled around - a shame for Greg and the girls, who'd been looking forward to this weekend ever since it was arranged.

"Of course," Mycroft had said when Greg broached the subject, delighted that his bodyguard felt comfortable enough to enquire. "They're always entirely welcome. I'll have Mrs Collins make up their room for them."

In the event, the poor weather had kept everyone confined to the house so far. Mycroft, with plenty to occupy him, had settled in the library and enjoyed a productive morning of work, calmed by the sound of heavy rain against the windows. Alice - ever helpful - kept him company by sleeping in a chair nearby. She was not technically allowed in the library; but then, technicalities were not her strong point.

Not long after five, Mycroft left his work in search of refreshment. Stepping through the library doors, he was distracted by the sounds of raucous laughter from the north wing. He paused with a hand on the stairs, listening to whatever was afoot with a smile.

Intrigued, he followed the happy chaos towards the entertainment den, wondering what he was about to discover.

 

*

 

“Oh, shite!” Greg was laughing, balanced carefully on the sofa with Shannon hanging off one arm like it was a pull-up bar. “Careful, monkey; we don’t want you falling in the lava!”

This was a favorite pastime of the Lestrade girls: shouting “The floor is lava!”

The following ten seconds were for scrambling on to nearby furniture and objects so as not to be standing in lava. They played it at school, at home, at the shops, everywhere. It was a wonderful way to relieve boredom and a guaranteed laugh.

“Come on, Jinx, the floor is lava!” Adrienne laughed, pulling the blonde woman up onto a chair with her. She clung to Jinx’s legs, giggling hysterically.

Shannon whooped with laughter and swung a little from her uncle’s bicep, feet kicking gleefully. “Whee!”

Greg was glad that the girls had decided to play this game; the rain always made them a little miserable, especially after so many weeks in anticipation of a fun weekend. It was heartwarming to see them so glad, and pulling Jinx in with them.

He caught sight of their employer in the doorway and grinned broadly. “The floor is lava!” he called, by way of explanation, eyes shining.

 

*

 

Mycroft's expression worked as he fought a smile. His eyes sparkled with mirth, moving between his bodyguard, his driver, and the two young ladies who'd greeted him this morning as Uncle Mycroft.

"Is it indeed?" he said. "An unfortunate turn of events. On an unrelated note, I think we need to have a word about your professionalism Lestrade."

 

*

 

“Big words coming from a guy standing in lava,” Greg said, grinning.

Alice slunk in around Mycroft’s feet and chirped happily, jumping from chair to table to couch and around the room until she was perched on top of a bookshelf. She sang her own praises quite happily, declaring herself Queen of the Mountain.

He looked over his shoulder and grinned. “See? Even Her Highness knows the floor is lava.”

He swung Shannon onto his shoulders and only winced a little as she clung to his hair for a moment.

She giggled and locked her legs around his shoulders. “Come on, Uncle Mycroft, or you’re gonna burn up!”

 

*

 

"Well, death by lava would be a terrible addition to the weekend..." Mycroft mused, and cast his eye about the room. "Especially as Mrs Collins has promised us all a chocolate cake after dinner."

Most of the escape routes were now claimed by staff or child - and the bookshelf, though secured to the wall, might not have enough strength in its individual shelves to support his weight. There was a risk that he and Alice would end up re-enacting a very specific part of The Lion King, which he'd rather everyone not gain as a cherished memory.

It looked as if there was only one option.

Mycroft crossed towards Greg, his eyes bright. "Do stay still," he advised, stepped up neatly onto the sofa, and with the brief use of Greg's shoulder as a stable platform, leapt cleanly for the light fitting in the centre of the room. He locked an arm between the metal supports, holding tightly until the momentum of his leap had swung itself free from his ankles. He then crossed them neatly and raised them, ensuring they were entirely free from the lava.

Though his arms shook slightly with the effort, the feeling of triumph as he looked into Greg's eyes was entirely worth it. 

He'd not had to resort to acrobatics in about fifteen years. It transpired that he'd missed it.

Too busy smiling at Greg, he hadn't noticed his driver's jaw hit the lava.

 

*

 

Greg’s eyebrows had begun a journey upwards when he was used as a support strut for Mycroft. When the man hung from the light fixture, Greg’s eyebrows had made friends with his hairline. They were bosom buddies now, and it would take a lot to separate them.

“...Jesus.”

“Wow!” Adrienne gasped. She stared at Greg accusingly. “You didn’t say Uncle Mycroft was a  _ ninja _ !”

Greg laughed. “He’s a  _ secret _ ninja, bug. Very hush-hush.”

Shannon giggled maniacally. “Uncle Myke  _ definitely _ won this time. That is  _ so cool _ .”

Adrienne nodded furiously. “ _ I  _ wanna learn how to do that!”

Greg pointed at Mycroft. “ _ You _ are going to pay to replace any light fixtures that one breaks.  _ And _ explain to my sister where she got the idea.  _ And _ take her to hospital when she inevitably falls out of a tree trying to do a flying squirrel impression.”

Melody hadn’t yet met Mycroft in person, only spoken to him on the phone, but Greg was certain that damage to her property or child would give her reason to track him down and give him an earful. He certainly wouldn’t be getting in the way of  _ that _ . He was a bodyguard, and many things were listed under his duties. Throwing himself in front of Hurricane Mel to save his boss was not one of them.

 

*

 

"Unfortunately," Mycroft sighed, tensed his upper arms, and with immense effort raised his feet enough to hook each ankle through a metal bracket, "my field training falls under the Official Secrets Act, Lestrade."

He took a moment to catch his breath.  _ Lord god almighty... when did I age? This shan't be happening again this decade. _

"Meaning that if it is witnessed," he said, crossed his shins tightly, and released his hands from the bracket, lowering his upper body slowly from the bracket like an unfolding chrysalis, "it would be a crime against the British nation for me to admit to any of this. I'd be obliged to lie to your sister to conceal it." 

Upside down, flushed in the face, the smile he gave Greg was not a smile to be forgotten lightly.

His tie flopped down across his face; he blew it aside with a huff.

"So I think  _ you'll  _ be explaining this, I'm afraid." 

He then added:

" - though I will of course pay for light fittings... perhaps in exchange for some assistance down from here."

 

*

 

Greg’s heart galloped in his chest.  _ Good Christ. _ He could see the obvious signs of effort (a devilish voice in the back of his head wondered if Mycroft would perhaps be up for some training sessions), but he was still incredibly impressed.

Not to mention that  _ smile _ .

_ I am going to have a heart attack and die. _

_ But what a way to go. _

“I think I can manage that,” he said, smiling warmly. He patted Shannon’s leg and got off the couch, crouching down so she could clamber off his shoulders.

She skipped happily over to the chair that still contained Jinx and Adrienne and hopped up. Though the girls weren’t large for their age, the surface was a little small to hold all three of them, and there was a bit of wobbling and grabbing until she caught her balance.

The girls immediately began giggling between themselves, and the giggles only got louder as Greg positioned himself below his employer.

Looking up with a smile, Greg spread his feet and braced. He cradled Mycroft’s upper body carefully, prepared to catch his legs as they came down.

“Alright, sir. Down you get.” A warm, fond smile. “You can trust me. I’ve got you.”

 

*

 

Mycroft took a grip on Greg as functionally as he could, while establishing the tight hold he required to do this without killing one or both of them. His grin flashed as he glanced into Greg's eyes, a look of warning.

"Don't you dare drop me," he murmured, his voice low. He then tightened his grip, braced and drew both legs swiftly and smoothly from the light fitting, sinking at once into Greg's arms. He remembered to relax as he did this, and not to stiffen - it had been years, but the muscle memory never faded - and as Lestrade returned him safely to the ground, the delight in Mycroft's eyes could have lit the house. 

"I shall let you browse my MI6 file one day," he told Greg, out of breath, but more than a little pleased with himself. "Quite the ambitious work of fiction, but an evening's entertainment at least..."

 

*

 

“Right, because MI6 is in the habit of creating fictitious files for their agents,” Greg said with a grin. “Adding fluff and excitement. I’d heard that.”

He straightened Mycroft’s tie with a fond smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by:

“Greg’s file makes for its own entertaining reading.” It was Anthea, leaning casually against the doorframe of the den.

She walked over, the picture of elegance, and looked at the pair of them. “ _ Very _ impressive displays of strength,” she said, looking first at her employer, then his bodyguard.

She gave Greg’s bicep a brief squeeze and stepped back, trailing her fingers for a moment longer. “Mrs. Collins says dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes.” She nodded at Mr. Holmes, smiled at Greg and the girls, and ignored Maguire entirely.

And then she was gone, with nothing but a lingering whiff of perfume to say she had been there.

Greg blinked, then looked at the twins. “Alright, you heard Anthea,” he said, clapping his hands. “Go wash up, rugrats. Clean hands!”

They chorused assent and scrambled off.

 

*

 

Mycroft was greatly fond of his assistant; though he did wish she could keep her hands to herself some time. Her impressive sexual resume was probably longer than Lestrade's entire file by now. It might even be longer than Mycroft's. It wasn't the first time she'd let a casual touch linger when it came to Greg - and they were growing ever so slightly more blatant each time. 

Lestrade's lack of reaction was reassuring. 

As the children hurried off to wash their hands, Mycroft resurrected his smile - then caught the look on Jessamine Maguire's face, and realised why this particular moment had invited such a flagrant admiration of Lestrade.

His heart tightened a little.  _ Must you torture the girl, Anthea?  _ He could hardly speak to her about it, though. As their employer, it was best to pretend he had no knowledge of these things at all. 

"I believe I'll take the chance to change," he said, with a light smile to both. "Do join us for dinner, Maguire, if you wish. If you'll both excuse me."

 

*

 

Greg waited until he was gone, then turned to Jinx with eyebrows raised. “Man, you must have  _ really _ pissed her off, because there’s no way she doesn’t know I’m gay.”

 

*

 

Jinx's expression worked. 

"You're not that obvious," she said - but she had to admit it was true. She rolled her tongue across her back teeth, taking a second to remind herself the alternative would have been much worse. "Wonder if she decides on set lengths of punishment. One year, five years, ten, sort of thing... or maybe it's just one strike and eternal winter. Got a feeling it's the eternal winter option."

She gave him a look of kindling humour, trying her hardest to shake it off.

"Wouldn't be so bad, except I actually do  _ want  _ to screw her brains out. Serves me right for trying to do the honourable thing."

 

*

 

“If you suck up really hard, you might be able to get it down to only half an eternity,” Greg offered. 

He winced a little. “I doubt it, though. I’ve never seen her like this.”

He tilted his head and held his hands up, admitting, “Granted, I haven’t  _ known _ her that long, but from what I can tell she usually just talks to them until they cry and then things go back to normal. This is different.”

Jinx had clearly done  _ very _ badly at faking her illness and Anthea had caught on. If Greg had learned one thing, it was that Anthea hated to be deceived - or rather, hated poor attempts at deception.

He chuckled a little, shaking his head and feeling sorry for the blonde, usually perky woman. “Sucks doing the right thing, doesn’t it? Especially when it comes to the pretty ones.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. I have no idea if you can break your own curse. Joining us for dinner?”

 

*

 

Jinx smiled, giving in to his good humour. Things had been good lately. If Anthea was going to torture her a bit, then so be it - the worst case scenario had already been avoided, and that was what mattered.

"Yeah, go on then," she said. "Can't say no to chocolate cake... nice to spend time with the girls, too. They're fantastic kids." She pushed her hands into her pockets, leading the way out of the den. "You coming with me to take them home tonight?" she asked. "Or are you gonna stay here and help Mr Holmes rediscover some more of his acrobatics training?"

She dropped him a pantomime wink.

 

*

 

Greg shoved her playfully. “Settle, you,” he growled, eyes dancing with mirth. “Or you’re for a cold bath, and no mistake!”

It felt nice to be able to be teased like that, even though there was absolutely no truth behind it.

Though they had worked things out after the Carrying Incident, and things were basically back to normal, Greg still wasn't sure where he stood with Mycroft. 

The reason was this: the man went out of his way to avoid touching him.

Gone were the casual nudges and brushes he had gotten used to. No more gentle adjusting of his tie or lapels, no more fussing over the state of his hair, even in jest. For Christ’s sake, Mycroft was careful not to touch him even when handing him a mug of coffee or a cup of tea, and that took skill.

It hurt. He missed it, hadn't noticed how often they were touching until they had stopped. In the beginning, Greg had tried to initiate contact, only to have his employer retreat.

Never obviously, of course. Never a word of reprimand. Just quiet, definite enhancement of personal space.

Greg didn't need to be told.

_ I do not want to touch you. _

_ I do not want you to touch me. _

Perhaps it was a recognition of professional boundaries at last, but he sort of doubted it. That night had been very personal.

But then - helping him down - had that -?

_ No. You're the only one strong enough to have helped him down. That's all. _

After all, Mycroft had stepped away, just a little bit, after he was on his feet. Someone besides Greg might not even have noticed. But he got the message loud and clear.

_ Don't touch me. _

_ You are here to assist me, and nothing more. _

_ Know your place. _

It would be hard, but Greg would try to remember that. The last thing he wanted to do was make Mycroft uncomfortable or overstep boundaries.

Even if it hurt.

 

*

 

Oblivious, Jinx grinned, ducked and shoved Greg back twice as hard, enough to stagger him off to one side. She took the second's head-start caused by his stumble to dart out of the room and race off down the corridor at speed, military-fast on her feet and with no intention whatsoever of getting caught.

 


	24. Architecture

It was a hot and stuffy Friday - according to the Met Office, the hottest June day for twelve years. Tomorrow would be even hotter. Unable to bear the constricting walls of his London office for another hour - or the scent of one more politician, sweating furiously in a woollen three-piece suit - Mycroft called an early beginning to the weekend. 

The air-conditioning system in the car was suddenly worth every penny. As soon as his head hit the back of the seat, Mycroft reached for his tie and undid it, working the fabric out from beneath his collar.

"You can lose the jacket, Maguire," he said, twisting open his top button. Jinx did so eagerly, gasping something that sounded distinctly like 'thank fuck', wrestling her arms free from the confining black fabric. 

As his bodyguard slid into the seat beside him, Mycroft gave Greg a gentle smile.

"You're relieved of official duties for the weekend," he said, now undoing the buttons of his dove-grey waistcoat. "Make yourself more comfortable. I'll continue working back at the house, but you're free to relax - I don't expect you to stand to attention in this heat."

 

*

 

“Oh thank Christ.” Greg immediately shed his own jacket and tie, and quickly undid several buttons of his shirt. Even in his lightest suit, standing for hours on end meant he felt like he was drowning in sweat.

He folded the items and set them aside, adjusting the cool air as cold as it would go. He rubbed a hand across his forehead and smiled. “I kind of doubt you're going to want another body in the office with you. Between you and Anthea it'll be plenty hot in there.”

He hoped the flush across his cheeks would be taken as overheating, not the embarrassment it actually was.

_ Smooth going, Lestrade. _

 

*

 

In the front seat, Anthea removed her jacket, unbuttoned her shirt nearly down to her sternum (which she never would have done were she seated beside her employer), and threw her hair up into a messy ponytail, desperate to get it off the back of her neck.

She rucked her skirt higher up her thighs, just exposing the lace edge of her hose. As her head fell back against the seat, her hands crept to the stockings, slipping just under the hem of her skirt.

A quick fumble, the quiet noise of garter clips, and she slid the stockings down her legs. To hell with hose. It was too bloody hot to be wearing them, and if removing it drew Maguire’s attention, so much the better.

She slipped her shoes off, pushed her stockings off the rest of the way, and decided she was perfectly happy like that: flushed, a little short of breath, and half-undone.

 

*

 

As Jinx got herself settled in to drive, she ignored the shirt-unbuttoning and the hair fluffing, determined that two could play at the frosty game. Mr Holmes and Greg seemed to be shedding layers too, and good on them. Nobody should be wearing ties in this weather. How Mr Holmes had coped all day in a waistcoat, she'd never know.

As the two men started to talk, Jinx leant back and nudged shut the privacy screen - just in time to see Anthea hitch up her skirt. 

_ Shine a light.  _

_ This is escalating quickly.  _

As Anthea started investigating beneath it, Jinx's eyebrows lifted towards her hair. She said nothing at all, started the engine and peeled them out into traffic, wearing the same startled but silent expression. 

Only as the stockings came all the way down did she risk a sideways glance and a comment.

"Bloody hell, woman. What's coming off next?"

 

*

 

Anthea’s gaze slid sideways, head remaining still. One brow arched ever so slightly upwards.

Several replies passed through her mind. She let the silence linger a moment longer before she said, “Am I making you uncomfortable, Maguire?”

The tone of her voice made it quite clear that she didn't care one way or the other, and that it probably wasn't any of Maguire’s business what clothing Anthea was or wasn't going to remove next.

She turned her gaze back to the road, looking at nothing in particular. The faintest hint of discomfort passed over her face, and she rolled her shoulders.

_ Damn bra straps.  _ She had delicate shoulders as it was, and constantly fought to keep her bra straps situated where they belonged, but in the heat they slipped down ever so much more easily.

Perhaps she’d adjust them in a moment.  _ Really _ give Maguire something to gawk at.

 

*

 

_ Oh, darlin’. The day I leave this posting and my cover’s gone, I’m going to come back for you.  _

_ And I’m going to take you down like a wrecking ball.  _

The wriggling, the tone, the sharp little looks... she was magnificent. She was gorgeous and vicious and petty, and Jinx loved all three of those things. The woman needed to be surprised. Jinx wanted to surprise her. The clumsy, chirpy and clueless persona of Jessamine Maguire covered up a lot of things, but she’d never lamented it more than when all this had kicked off - especially in moments like this. 

As she drove, Jinx restrained herself to a small smile.

“So long as you don’t drape them across the steering wheel or my face, pet, you can do what you like.”

The one joy of pissing off Anthea was you then had a free pass to piss off Anthea.

 

*

 

Anthea’s lip curled up in a slight snarl before her expression iced over.

_ Pet. Please. _

“At least you’re right about one thing,” she said coolly, sliding her hands under her shirt to adjust her bra straps. One side, then the other. Reposition strap, adjust, settle.

“I can do what I like.”

She then adjusted her breasts within the cups of the bra, scooping and settling them in a quick, practiced motion.

_ Look at what you can’t have. Can’t touch. _

Assets firmly in place, she pulled her mobile out of her purse and began answer emails as if she wasn’t half-dressed and hadn’t just had her hands in her own undergarments. The picture of professionalism.

Minus the clothing situation.

 

*

 

Jinx decided she should probably contact her bosses when they got back to the house. There was a flaw in MI6's Advance Driving programme. Being able to confidently handle a vehicle under gunfire was one thing; being able to do it while Anthea was pawing at her own breasts was another. Jinx was now fighting the urge to park the car somewhere quiet, ask Mr Holmes and Greg if they'd mind going for a walk for five minutes, and blow her cover in one spectacular explosion that would finish her entire career forever. She'd be making sandwiches at Subway before the week was out.

What a fucking fantastic five minutes it would be, though. 

Alas that circumstances were against them. The world was cruel, and Jinx Maguire had made her choices long ago. Ripping Anthea's shirt in two, wrapping the woman's thighs around her shoulders and seeing if she could make her writhe so hard she broke the side window of Mr Holmes's jag was a privilege she would not have in this lifetime. 

So, aggravation it was.

"You should probably get yourself to Marks and Spencer, if that thing's giving you trouble..." She kept her eyes on the road, her expression oblivious, and her tone lightly helpful. "They do free bra-fitting, so they'll check it for you. Means you won't have to rummage about in it all the time. They've probably got something with sturdier straps, too - dinner lady bras with loads of hooks at the back. You know the sort of thing."

_ Gooooooal! Point to Maguire. One-nil. Oh, yessss.  _

_ Straight in the back of the net. _

Jinx would never fuck Anthea. She could definitely fuck her off, though - and only the latter stages of fighting and sex were all that different. 

The build-up was exactly the same sort of fun.

 

*

 

“I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar.”

One smooth movement under the shirt, a quick wriggle, and Anthea’s bra was hanging from her fingertip, dangling very clearly in the air where Maguire could see it.

It was lacey. It was gorgeous. It was expensive.

And it was part of a matching set.

“You see, I very much doubt Marks and Spencers sells anything like  _ this _ .”

It was flicked into Maguire’s lap, landing squarely.

“And that’s the sort of thing I’m accustomed to.”

_ There. See how ‘helpful’ you can be with my underthings in your lap and thoughts of what  _ other _ underthings I might own are running through your head. _

One-upmanship was a game Anthea was quite familiar with, and it wasn’t one she intended to lose.

If it served to make Maguire regret her actions at the restaurant that night, so much the better.

 

*

 

_... alright. Maybe one-all.  _

_ Come on, Jinx. We got taught how to withstand lengthy imprisonment and interrogation under torture. We can survive an hour’s drive with a bra.  _

She gripped the wheel quietly, smothered her smile, and cast a cool glance down at the construction of lace and decadence now laid across her lap. 

"There’s no support in that," she said. "No wonder you’re always messing with it. You need a proper vest, girl. A sports bra. Something with a bit of architecture in it."

Heaving a happy sigh, turning the car into their main route home, she added with a shake of her head,

"Man, I can’t wait to see you explain to Mr Holmes and Greg why I’ve got your bra... oh my  _ God. _ I should put it on over my shirt. That’d be hilarious. Imagine their faces."

 

*

 

“In this heat?” Anthea’s brow quirked up. “Please. Be my guest.”

_ Not to mention that Lestrade and Mr. Holmes are far too focused on themselves to notice anything strange about your appearance. I doubt the transferral of my bra will register. _

She flipped through her mobile and fired off a few quick emails, leaving the car in silence for a couple of moments.

An idea percolated in the back of her mind. It was… extreme.

She’d hold it for later.

“Not that it’s any of  _ your _ business, Maguire, but I do own  _ several _ undergarments with architecture to them.” A smirk. “Not sports bras,” said like she might say ‘dead mice’, “but… architecture nonetheless.”

Anthea very rarely had reason to wear corsetry, but she did own several. Some were for foundation, others were for seduction, and she had employed both types to great success.

She smiled, just a little, at the memory of one occasion of the latter. She shifted slightly in her seat, crossing one leg over the other.

The fact that it hitched her skirt up higher, revealing the now-empty garter straps, was not entirely coincidence.

 

*

 

_ I knew you’d start talking to me again eventually, darlin’.  _ Jinx kept the thought off her face, adjusted the air-con slightly, and reached across Anthea to the glovebox. 

With a fruit gum tucked behind her teeth, she said,

"Have a sweet, if you want one. There’s Doritos in there too. Don’t tell Mr Holmes."

Sitting back in her seat, toeing off her shoes, she said,

"Never seen the point of fancy underpants. Maybe I’ve just never seen someone do it properly. My ex used to wear thongs the size of a postage stamp - waste of laundry powder, really.”

Biting her tongue, with an expression of total innocence, she added,

"Then again, she didn’t need them much of the time.”

 

*

 

Anthea resisted rolling her eyes. Barely. It was a cheap and obvious tactic - and a wasted one, sadly for Maguire. There was no jealousy there to stoke, and she was in complete control of her faculties, which meant that she wouldn’t be distracted by imagining Maguire in bed with another woman.

Well. Not currently. Perhaps later.

“It’s about aesthetic, Maguire, not convenience,” she said, as though she were talking to someone particularly dim.

“There’s more to life than instant gratification,” she said crisply, smoothing her shirt down as she re-adjusted her position.

The material flattened and exposed more of her curves, flashing pale skin. It also highlighted the effect of the air-con: the natural effect of cold air on breasts, making certain bits of Anthea’s anatomy rather more perky than normal.

_ There. Let’s see how you deal with that. _

 

*

 

Jinx wondered what buttons she’d have to press for Anthea to be completely naked and sprawled across the seat by the time they got back to the estate. It was all heading that way so far. 

She also wondered what state of dress Lestrade was in in the back. He probably wasn’t jutting his nipples attractively towards the air-con just yet - but having said that, it was only a matter of time before one or the other of them started resorting to desperate tactics.

Speaking of desperate tactics, she took an indulgent glance in the wing mirror - storing details for revisiting later - then turned up the air-con a little. 

"Did you see Eastenders last night? What a cliff-hanger, eh? Dunno how they’ll get their way out of that one."

 

*

 

Anthea didn’t even deign to respond to that verbally. Just one slight arch of a brow upwards -  _ do I look like I watch soaps? _

The fact that she did, on occasion, indulge in soaps, was completely beside the point. It appealed to her in the same way her romance novels appealed to her: a brief escape from the world, light fare that never asked much of her. Nothing complex, nothing puzzling. Easy.

That there were no dire consequences for lapses in concentration was a perk, as well. After long hours spent helping to balance the fate of the world, the last thing Anthea wanted was to continue concentrating and calculating. Soaps and trashy books were her way of disengaging, letting her mind settle for a little while.

Among other activities.

She made a soft noise at the back of her throat and shifted, enjoying the air-con. It really  _ was _ too bloody hot, and the weather showed absolutely no sign of breaking over the weekend.

 

*

 

Jinx chuckled softly. It was a rather darker, lower laugh than she would usually share - it came from a slightly different side of her.

"You're no fun," she decided, as the car pulled up at traffic lights. "Bet Greg and Mr Holmes are getting up to all sorts in the back. And you don't even want to chat about Eastenders."

If she'd had any sense, she'd have stopped and thought a little longer about how this was getting out of hand again.

But then, she thought, it was hard to have sense when it was this hot - especially while you had Anthea's bra tossed casually in your lap, and the woman arousing herself by use of air-con beside you.

 

*

 

That laugh.

_ How very interesting _ .

It reminded Anthea of the disastrous night in the restaurant, in a way: a hint of a hidden layer, something deeper to Jessamine Maguire.

“Excuse me if I don’t find chatting about Eastenders particularly  _ stimulating _ , I’m sure,” she drawled, leaning her head back and closing her eyes.

She reached out and flicked one of the vents to face her more squarely. Another soft noise left her throat and she practically melted back against the seat.

 

*

 

_ You can't bear it, baby, can you?  _

_ You can't cope with someone oblivious to your charms.  _

Christ, but it was so much fun. Whenever Lestrade sat in the front, they just talked about cars and the football. This was far more interesting. 

"What do you find stimulating, then?" Jinx asked, as if she was expecting an answer like 'travel' or 'going to the ballet'. "Apart from fancy underpants and me, obviously."

 

*

 

“What on Earth makes you think you stimulate me, Maguire?” Anthea asked.

Her tone was frostier than the high end air conditioning.

 

*

 

"I've got your bra off without even trying?" Jinx suggested, flashing a sideways grin. "Usually I have to buy someone a drink before I'm handed a bra."

 

*

 

“You ought to get your head checked, Maguire,” Anthea purred, not bothering to open her eyes. “Since you had nothing to do with the removal of my undergarments.”

Now she did crack one eye open. “Although it would do you good to examine it. Maybe some decent taste will rub off on you. Though I doubt it.”

She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a muttered ‘ _ Marks and Spencer’ _ and closed her eye again, reveling in the cool breeze.

 

*

 

Jinx's eyes gleamed, her gaze trained on the road over the wheel.

"Oh man, I'd love to have a good look at it," she said. "Really I would. I'm a bit busy now though, yeah? And, frankly, I don't know how I'd explain to Mr Holmes that I crashed us all into a hedge because I was learning the finer points of lingerie from your bra. I'd like to see  _ you  _ explain it, though. Maybe I'll give it a try, and just make sure I knock myself out on a tree."

 

*

 

“Mn.” Anthea rolled her lower lip between her teeth.

_ What the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound.  _

She sat up slowly and leaned forward. She bent over, well aware that she was flashing some serious cleavage at least, and retrieved her stockings from the floor of the car.

“In the name of education.” She dropped the hose into Maguire’s lap.

_ This is crazy. _

_ I don’t care. _

Her feet braced against the floor, she tilted her hips up. A quick wriggle, a shimmy, and she had her garter belt in hand.

“A gift.” The garter belt joined hose and bra.

One final shimmy.

One final lacy item.

“From me to you.”

Her underwear joined the pile.

“I’m sure you’ll learn a lot.”

Her eyes flashed, and a wicked smile danced across her mouth. “Do try to keep us out of any hedges, won’t you, Maguire?”

 

*

 

Jinx's face remained completely and utterly still, her eyes fixed above the wheel on the cars ahead of them. She noted in her peripheral vision as item after item was added to the pile, resisting a smile with every atom of her being. She could  _ feel  _ her eyes gleaming, and there was no way she could stop that - stop  _ this -  _ stop this escalating, put out of her head that she was now the proud owner of every scrap of Anthea's underwear.

_ Fuck. _

_ Fuck me up, girl. If you knew. _

_ If I could trust you. Tell you. _

_ The fun we'd have. _

"Still warm are you, darlin'?" Jinx reached for the air-con, adjusting it casually. "There you go. Try not to shatter my windscreen with those nipples, will you? 'Cause I dunno how to explain that to Mr Holmes either."

 

*

 

“Thank you, Maguire,” Anthea hummed. “Very considerate of you. Far too hot today.”

She undid the last few buttons of her shirt, exposing her abdomen to the breeze. The fabric barely stayed on her body, clinging desperately to her shoulders and the hills of her breasts.

“So long as you don’t do a sudden brake check, I’m quite sure your windscreen is safe from me,” she added, glancing sideways with a smirk.

_ Good Christ. This is far too much fun. _

_ Highly inappropriate. _

_ Don’t care. _

Thank God for the privacy screen. She was sure Mr. Holmes would be shocked if he could see her now.

Or perhaps not. There had been that one conference in Switzerland, when he had gone looking for her and found her in a rather compromising situation with another PA.

Not that he had been complaining, mind. She had gotten some  _ very _ valuable information out of the young lady after that.

 

*

 

_ Jesus.  _ Jinx wanted to look. She wanted to pull her eyes from the road and look her fill, in the hope that the rest of the shirt might ease on its way. This was rapidly reaching the boundaries of a felony, and God help them if she accidentally triggered a speed camera. What a wonderful photograph that would be for Mr Holmes to receive in the post.

Only duty and training kept her head forcing forwards. 

"Rather good at sudden brake checks," she said - and let that speak for itself. 

The restaurant had been a mess. This was a mess, too. Everything was a mess. Greg and Mr Holmes were a mess, and Jinx's position was a mess, and it was too damn hot.

"Don't flirt with Lestrade to punish me," she said, in a voice unlike her own. Something quiet had settled over her face. "Mr Holmes needs him. Flirt with the milkman or something. Flirt with the cat. Flirt with my motorbike. Just go easy."

 

*

 

“I am well aware of what Mr. Holmes needs, Maguire,” Anthea said quietly, tilting her head back against the headrest. “Never doubt that.”

She turned her head to look at the other woman, eyes dark and maybe a little dangerous.

“Besides. Punishing you by flirting with Lestrade would be pointless. You have no interest in Lestrade.”  _ Or in men at all. _ If Maguire was the jealous type at all, it would be far more effective to flirt with another woman in front of her. 

Lestrade and Maguire were two of the most homosexual people she had ever met. The third was sitting in the back, completely unaware of the other gay man sitting beside him. It was a shame that Mr. Holmes was so clueless sometimes.

But then, that’s what Anthea was for: to hit Mr. Holmes with a feather or a two by four, whichever was required. She had tried feather, and was rapidly approaching two by four.

“My flirtations with him have nothing to do with you, and therefore are none of your business.”

Her posture changed a little, solidifying as her expression closed off. Where she had been flirtatious and wicked and devilish, she was now cool and untouchable and aloof.

Even still mostly undressed.

 

*

 

Jinx shook her head quietly. The confession that Anthea was purposely flirting with Greg was the worrying part. It suggested there was a plan at work. The last thing this household needed was the addition of a plan.

"I  _ am  _ interested in Lestrade," she said, and for a moment seemed somehow older - quieter, calmer, concerned. "As a friend. 'Friend' means when you like someone without needing to fuck them to show it.  _ Your  _ flirtations aren't any of my business - but if you're aiming them into a messy situation, trying to get your kicks, and you hurt someone who doesn't need any more hurt... you can hand me all the knickers you own, princess. I'll still call you out on it."

She reached for the gearstick, as calm and unassailable as a cliff face.

"The trouble with you," she said, "is you think you know everything. You really, really don't."

 

*

 

“I know enough.” Anthea’s voice was cool and calm. She laced her fingers together and tucked them under her chin, staring at the road ahead.

She wondered idly to herself when it would stop bothering her that people assumed she was incapable of showing affection in any manner besides sex; that she was devious and self-centered and would hurt anyone that stood in the way of getting what she wanted, do it without remorse.

She could be ruthless, that was true. And she certainly didn’t show affection in the way many people did. And she enjoyed sex, and didn’t care who knew it.

None of that meant that she didn’t  _ care _ . That she was incapable of recognizing the effects of her reactions on others. That she was selfish or self-centered.

She never did anything without a reason.

Part of her wondered why it bothered her so badly that Maguire seemed to think she didn’t know what friends were, seemed to think, maybe, she was incapable of having friends at all. Having anyone in her life who wasn’t invisible or a potential bedmate.

Of course, the woman had never seen Anthea with anyone but colleagues and playmates, so perhaps it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption on Maguire’s behalf.

_ Just because I don’t surround myself with friends doesn’t mean I don’t know what they are. _

She recognized the turn for the estate and began buttoning her blouse back up, smoothing her skirt down towards her knees, and generally making herself presentable. All the while, her face remained serene and untouchable, as cold and beautiful as a marble statue.

 

*

 

As they began to approach the gates, Jinx reached into the side door of the car for the remote.

"M'about to create a distraction for you," she said. "This is costing Mr Holmes a tire. I'll get out to have a look. Greg'll get out, too. I'll keep him towards the back of the car. We'll be a couple of minutes at the side of the road - keep the privacy screen shut and get your underwear back on."

Without waiting for a response, she swung the back-end of the car over the oncoming rock that she'd spotted.

 

*

 

Mycroft was halfway through a quietly amusing story about his last trip to South-East Asia when there came a bang as if the side door of the car had been struck by a projectile. The seat beneath him lurched. Before Mycroft could even cry out, he felt the ungainly jolt of Maguire's advanced driving kick in and the vehicle took off through the gates at breakneck speed. Unsure when he'd grabbed for Greg, Mycroft dug his fingers into the man's arms and held on.

The gates closed and locked behind them with a bang. Maguire got the car a safe distance down the lane before it juddered to a halt. Mycroft then heard the driver's door fly open, and the hurried crunch of footsteps.

"God almighty!" he gasped. "What's happening?"

It was Greg that he turned to in his panic, his eyes wide, face white. 

There came a bang on the back window.  _ "Lestrade!" _ Jinx shouted.

 

*

 

Greg frowned, senses on high alert. Very rarely was a car only shot at once - and he had felt the lurch - but -

_ But it might not be _ .

“I’m betting it’s a blown tire,” he said, putting a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, expression calm. “But get down, anyway.” The important thing was to remain calm. Exude that aura of competence and control, so that no one (Mycroft) ended up in a panic.

Having undone his seatbelt automatically as soon as he had registered the noise, Greg got out, handgun appearing as if by magic as he exited the car. 

He looked around quickly, shoulders tense and arms ready to bring up his firearm if necessary. Glancing sideways at Jinx, he asked, “We hit something?” 

There was an  _ or did something hit us? _ lingering unsaid.

Greg was  _ fairly _ certain she wouldn’t have gotten out if they had been under fire. She knew better than that.

But just in case, he didn’t relax his grip on his weapon.

 

*

 

Anthea watched Maguire fly out of the car as if in a panic, heard her call for Lestrade, and heard the side door of the car open and shut quickly.

_ Time starts now. _

Rather than replace her previous underthings, she pulled new ones out of her purse: a spare bra and panties, not nearly as fancy or elegant as what she had been wearing. She kept a set on her at all times for emergency situations.

Rarely was it one such as this, but she was good at rolling with the punches.

Once she had her undergarments situated, she folded up the other set and tucked them in the glovebox, behind the bag of Doritos.

A small handwritten note was folded up with them.

 

_ I told you. A gift.  
_ _ A _

 

That done, she began making arrangements via her mobile to have a new set of tires delivered to the house. No point in replacing just one, after all.

 

*

 

Jinx was already crouching by the tire on Mycroft's side - which was looking spectacularly flat. 

"Lost a tire," she said, leaning as low to the ground as she could, squinting at the track with a grimace. "I can't see any damage to it, though - could've rolled round beneath...? Doesn't obviously look like a projectile..."

She looked up at Greg, slightly tense.

"I'll need to have a closer look back at the house. D'you want to check up by the gates? Make sure there's nobody there?" 

She glanced back along the lane. 

"I mean... we probably just ran over a rock, but..."

 

*

 

Greg nodded. “Better safe than sorry, yeah.”

He walked down the lane, back towards the gate, shoulders tight and firearm at the ready. His head moved side to side quickly, looking for any movement.

Upon reaching the gates, Greg looked for any sign of an intruder. None could be found, and he felt secure enough to holster the weapon.

He double checked the area, just in case.

As he was returning to the car, still cautious, his eyes lit on a jagged rock.

_ Ah. Our likely culprit.  _

He stood behind it and waved a little to catch Jinx’s attention, then raised his eyebrows and pointed at the rock.

_ ‘How did you not see this?’ _

 

*

 

Jinx grimaced from a distance. She cupped her hands around her mouth.

"Bollocks!" she shouted, her voice echoing through the forest. "Sorry! Didn't spot it..."

The window of the backseat lowered. Mycroft appeared - still pale, but making a valiant effort to look merely inconvenienced rather than petrified to shit. "Maguire, could you kindly tone down the profanity? I'm not completely certain that's called for."

"Sh-... sugar. Sorry, Mr Holmes." Jinx gave him a guilty glance. "Erm - looks like we hit a rock... dunno how I missed it, but... you'll have to walk back to the house. S'only a few minutes from here. I'll get down with the kit from the garage, and see if it's anything I can fix..."

Mycroft drew a breath - at least they weren't under fire, he supposed.  _ Not that anyone should wish to open fire on me.  _ He got out of the car, retrieved their ties, jackets and his waistcoat from the backseat, and waited in the middle of the lane for Greg to return to the car. It was still blisteringly hot; the forest's shade brought little relief from the afternoon's sun. It dappled across Mycroft's hair, igniting small patches of his auburn into flaming copper.

Quiet, and with a touch of vulnerability in his eyes, he watched his bodyguard approach.

"It seems we are alright," he said.  _ Aren't we? _

 

*

 

Greg nodded, smiling gently as he approached. “We are.” He patted the side of the car. “And so’s she. A tire’s easy to replace. No harm done.”

_ Except to my heart. Stop being so goddamned attractive. Standing there in the sun looking all gorgeous. _

It was only sheer force of will that kept him from dragging the man against a tree and kissing him senseless, or maybe pulling him into an embrace and reassuring him that everything was fine, that they were alright.

Willpower and the knowledge that Mr. Holmes didn’t want to touch him. The reminder of that knowledge, when Greg was carefully handed his jacket and tie with the minimal amount of interaction, made his heart sink straight into his stomach.

He dragged a hand through his hair and managed a wry smile. “Gotta walk now though, huh? Good thing there’ll be cold beverages waiting at the other end.”

Anthea stepped out of the car, carrying her heels in hand. She had a sensible pair of black ballet flats on.

Greg stared. “Where the hell did you get those?”

She smirked a little and reached into her purse, handing over a pair of sunglasses to each of the men, then donning a pair, herself. “A good PA is  _ always _ prepared, Lestrade.”

There was a faint hint of something coy in her voice.

Greg didn’t notice at all. He put on the glasses and shook his head. “Women and their purses. It’s magic, I swear.”

 

*

 

Mycroft smiled, accepting the sunglasses with a look of gratitude. "You are indispensable," he told her, "as ever. I'm only startled that you haven't a spare tire to hand already. In your other purse, I assume."

He slipped the sunglasses on with care. 

"Maguire, come to the house and refresh yourself first. The car will be safe inside the gates." He glanced at his bodyguard, hopefully. "Greg might even accompany you back here to help, once he's had time to change."

Jinx straightened up from the ground, dusting off her knees and cleaning her grubby palms on the sides of her trousers.

 

*

 

Greg nodded, smiling easily. “Sure, I could do that. I’ve changed a tire or two in my time.”

He glanced at Jinx. “We’ll freshen up, then come back for our wounded warrior, yeah?”

Silently, Anthea offered Jinx another pair of sunglasses.

 


	25. Water Fight

The afternoon's work proceeded slowly in the heat. Mycroft found himself prone to distraction, and uncomfortable even with a rotating fan, no tie and several jugs of iced water. Having already given up on his London office, he was loathe to give up on work entirely - and so he and Anthea soldiered bravely onwards, finalising several of this week's major tasks and establishing areas of priority for next. 

The forecast was suggesting similar temperatures would dominate the weekend. Mycroft wanted to get as much done as they could, now, and let the weekend melt around him in a lazy puddle. He envisioned spending most of it out on the patio with a book and more iced water, watching Alice picking her way daintily through the flower-beds in search of a shady spot to sleep.

Mrs Collins had already changed every bed from a light spring duvet to cooler summer sheets; otherwise, no sleep would be had in this house tonight.

Shortly before five o'clock, Mycroft found himself reading the same paragraph of a report for the third time. He shut his eyes for a moment, massaging the gleaming bridge of his nose.  _ One more hour,  _ he thought,  _ and then surrender.  _

A shower - dinner. 

Wine on the patio with Greg. 

Greg had been faintly off today. Mycroft couldn't think why - he was hoping it was just the heat, and not any other concern. He'd taken great care lately not to create chances for himself to touch Greg. He knew how weak he was to taking those chances, and he knew it wasn't right - Greg certainly wouldn't want to be touched, if he had any idea what passed through Mycroft's mind when they did. 

With diligence and care, Mycroft had now trained himself to avert that possibility. He'd hoped it would make Greg feel secure and safe - not preyed upon by his lonely homosexual employer - but something still seemed to be wrong.

He wished they were close enough for him to ask.

But the balance had been so delicate lately - and it had taken so much of his strength to keep his hands to himself, to suppress all his hopeful thoughts of hugs and reaching and human touch with the man he l-... liked very much.

He didn't want anything to unsettle that balance.

Realising he'd now read this paragraph six times, Mycroft laid down his pen. He put his head into his hands, telling himself a moment's rest of his eyes would help.

"By any miracle," he murmured to his assistant, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, "does that window open any wider? I fear I'm rather losing my focus..."

 

*

 

Anthea set aside her notepad and pen and stood, rolling her shoulders uncomfortably. A trickle of sweat was trying to make its way down between her shoulder blades, and she rather wished it would either stop or finish its journey.

She went over to the window, already partially open, and began examining it, pushing gently to see if it would swing any wider, let in a bit more of a breeze if there was one to be found.

Movement out in the yard caught her eye, and she paused in her mission.

Her heart leaped into her throat.

_ Good Christ, those two are going to be the death of me. _

Lestrade and Maguire had apparently taken it upon themselves to wash several of the cars, since it was obvious their jobs had quite finished for the day.

They were out with soapy sponges and buckets of water, and a hose had been dug out from the shed (Anthea was guessing, she didn’t actually know that for certain).

In deference to their activities, both had changed into much more casual clothing.

_ Much _ more casual. Both of them were missing their shirts and were soaking wet. It was clear why, since Lestrade had just thrown a sponge in Maguire’s direction and gotten hit squarely in the chest with a blast from the hose for it.

_ God above. _

“Mr. Holmes?” she called, not taking her eyes off the scene before her. “Come here.”

 

*

 

Mycroft raised his head from the eighth reading of the pointless paragraph, dazed as he studied her over his reading glasses. 

"Mm?"  _ Strange,  _ he thought.  _ A direct order.  _ Anthea was far more likely to request his assistance at the window if it suited him, and provide details of why she'd want such a thing. The two words,  _ come here,  _ caught his attention. 

Any excuse to stop staring at this report for a minute - whatever form it took - was welcome.

He pushed back his chair, crossed the office to her side, and joined her with mild curiosity at the window.

As he realised what he was looking at, the bottom seemed to fall from his stomach.

Down in the yard, Lance Corporal Maguire - clad in what looked like a soaking wet navy sports bra and combat trousers, her hair drenched and scruffed up into spikes, laughing fit to burst - was dousing Lestrade across the bonnet of the Jaguar with a hosepipe. 

At least, Mycroft  _ assumed _ it was Lance Corporal Maguire. He wasn't particularly looking at her. 

He was staring, his mouth now open, at Lestrade.

_ God help me. _

A wet, laughing Lestrade - gleaming in the afternoon sun.

_ God. _

_ Help. _

_ Me. _

 

*

 

_ Jesus. Christ. _

Anthea wasn’t sure how they had ended up with two such fine specimens of gender as staff, but she wasn’t about to complain.

The pair of them soaked to the bone, laughing together like children. Maguire gold, Lestrade silver, both gleaming and chiseled in all the right places.

_ Jeans that cling that well should be illegal. _

Lestrade had changed into well-fitting, but comfortable jeans. Jeans that now shaped to every single muscle in his lower body like they were made of cling-wrap, not denim.

_ For that matter, those combat trousers should be illegal. _

It wasn’t as if Maguire had a deficit in the ‘shapely lower half’ area. Anthea couldn’t keep her eyes off of either one of them. Especially since Lestrade had somehow already started to tan, and there were some very intriguing scars all over his torso.

Some she could place from his employee file. Some she couldn’t. 

_ How very interesting. _

She glanced sideways quickly and smirked to herself, just for a moment. Mr. Holmes was completely and utterly lost, staring at Lestrade like he was some shining Adonis.

Which wasn’t particularly far off the mark, in fairness to him.

 

*

 

It was all Mycroft could do not to clutch the windowsill and groan.  _ Scars, for God's sake.  _ It shouldn't be attractive. It was. The rush he was now experiencing felt like being thrown back in time - twenty years back in time, back to when he was young and wild and lust could strike like a lightning bolt. 

This was more, though. As he watched Greg, falling apart into pieces where he stood, he realised what it was.

This wasn't just appreciation of an attractive man's physique. It was Greg's  _ laugh -  _ the sight of him playing with Maguire like the two of them were puppies, like nothing mattered in the world.

Mycroft's heart ached with immediate pain.

He'd seen Greg laugh like that before. Teasing Mycroft. Throwing smarties for him to catch; flirting over dinner. Carrying him up a staircase.

He hadn't seen Greg laugh like that in weeks.

Not since...

As he watched them play, sadness fell over Mycroft like a quiet sweep of shadow.  _ I spoiled it,  _ he thought. _ Too far. Too close. _

A wrestling match began over the hose. Mycroft tried to smile - tried to let it cheer him, hoping that if he put the expression upon his face, it would grow real somehow.  _ At least he has Maguire. A true friend.  _

Glancing down, his throat suddenly tight, Mycroft realised Anthea was still standing beside him at the window. 

_ I should appreciate you more.  _ She'd had a hundred reasons to leave him, and never had. The clean, professional space of their relationship had been his shelter for many years now, and he was realising more and more that easy relationships were not common in this world.

Looking back into the yard, he drew a long breath.

Maguire had got Lestrade in a headlock. He was putting up a good fight, the pair of them still laughing wildly. They touched each other without a care - grappling, shoving as they fought, half-dressed and not bothered in the least by the skin contact.

_ How have they achieved that? Why is that touching welcome, comfortable, safe?  _

_ Why is my touching not? _

_ Because she is not in love with him,  _ Mycroft thought - and for the first time, his heart sinking, the thought completed itself.  _ But you are. _

Biting the side of his cheek, Mycroft took some time to compose himself.

"Lestrade has - rather invigorated the household," he remarked to his assistant, hoping she didn't hear the truth behind it - hoping that she  _ did  _ hear the truth behind it - hoping he still held some scrap of dignity in her eyes. "I'm... not sure we'll ever be quite the same again."

 

*

 

Anthea smiled softly at Mr. Holmes’ words, but her eyes were tinged with sadness.

She had seen nearly every thought pass over his face - things he couldn’t or didn’t hide from her. When they were here, just the two of them, neither took pains to shield their thoughts overmuch. The closeness of years worked together provided the insight needed to decode the faint expressions that passed as each thought did.

Mr. Holmes was in love. Plain and simple. 

In love with Lestrade. 

_ Love. Figures _ .

And her Mr. Holmes would never act on it. Not now. She still wasn’t certain what had happened to change so much; he hadn’t confided that in her and now seemed like he never would. But something had changed, and he was lonely again. 

_ You shouldn’t be in love and be lonely. _

Lestrade was so clearly good for him - the weeks where they had been happy together had been some of the most productive in years, not to mention Mr. Holmes’ overall health - that she had to do something.

The subtle approach wasn’t working.

The time had come for a two by four.

“I hope we won’t,” she said gently.

In a rare move, she touched his forearm with her fingertips before turning back to the window. Her eyes lit on a secondary catch, which she undid. The window swung out wider, and a breeze picked up in the room.

Anthea smiled faintly and inhaled the scent of summer before turning back to her employer.

“Why don’t you stay here by the window for a bit, sir?” she suggested. “Clear your head. I’ll bring some cold drinks.” She looked at their pile of paperwork. “The reports won’t be harmed by a few more minutes.”

 

*

 

The breeze was calming; Mycroft needed it. He lowered himself quietly into a chair, telling himself the heat was the only source of his distress - this would all pass. 

He was doing well. Even as the rising chaos of his feelings left him weak and tired and wild, none of them reached Lestrade. The man wasn't being burdened with them. That was the vital part of this sorry affair, and so long as that barrier held, all would be well. Mycroft would hold it. He had strength and patience - and care for Lestrade: true, honourable care. 

They were employers out there who might even have attempted to bully the man into their bed by now.

There was a comfort in honour and control.

Not quite the comfort of loving arms - not quite the comfort of those open smiles he missed so much it caused him physical pain - not the comfort of playing and sharing joy and growing close - but those things were beyond Mycroft's reach. There was no sense in mourning them.

He was doing well, and the heat was leaving him fraught - that was all.

Numbly, Mycroft turned his eyes back to the window. He watched without a sound as the water-fight continued.

He realised, after a long and quiet minute, that he was rubbing his palm with the opposite thumb - holding his own hand, drawing a circle of comfort over and over as his fingers shook.  _ So starved of touch that my own will do,  _ he thought, as he swallowed.

_ But then, who else's touch will there be? _

He let the quiet circles continue, and wished with all his heart that things were different.

 

*

 

Anthea watched him from the doorway, jaw clenched and eyes tight. She hated to see him like this. Wished, a little, that things between them were different, that she could go over and touch him gently, reassure him.

But things were as they were, and the only recourse she had was this.

_ Don’t worry, sir.  _

_ I’ll get you through this. _

She padded downstairs quietly, steps soft in her ballet flats, and arranged a tray of light snacks, iced water, and fruit juice for them, placing it in the fridge for her return.

When that was done, she prepared a similar tray for the pair outside, swapping the drinks for two bottles of water she grabbed from the  refrigerator. She headed outside with it, pausing only a moment when the wall of heat hit her.

Anthea walked over to the scene of the waterfight and (after balancing the tray in one hand) placed two fingers in her mouth, whistling loudly. When the combatants had paused in their battle, she held up the tray in one hand and a bottle of water in the other, brow raised slightly in offering.

 

*

 

Greg grinned and beckoned Anthea over.

He watched as she tossed one over the bonnet of the car to Maguire and gladly accepted his own, impressed by her deft handling of the tray.

“Thanks,” he said, cracking it open and downing half in one go. “It’s bloody boiling out here.”

“Indeed,” she murmured, watching the line of his throat as he drank.

 

*

 

Jinx pulled the bottle out of the air, visibly biting her tongue. 

_ Of course you've come down to have a look,  _ she thought.  _ Someone strips off, and you appear with snacks. Funny. Surprised you've not set up a deckchair and popcorn. _

She twisted open the bottle, took a drink and raked her hair back out of her face with a hand, doing her best to pretend she wasn't keeping an eye on Anthea from across the car.

 

*

 

Greg was so focused on his water and getting the cap back on that he was startled when Anthea’s fingertips slid across his bicep, tracing four deep, nasty scars there. There was a mirror of them on his other arm, in the same place.

His shoulders tightened minutely, and he looked at her with a faint frown.

She wore a contemplative look, head tilted ever so slightly. Her eyes flicked up to his, looking up through her lashes.

“Got any more?” she murmured, tone coy.

Or maybe gentle.

“Anthea…” he said, frown deepening.

Her hand curled around his arm and she popped up on her toes, bringing her mouth near his ear. They were chest to chest, nearly touching.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she breathed.

 

*

 

_ 'To protect and preserve the life and well-being of Mycroft Holmes, at all personal cost'. _

Jinx had made a promise.

Not just a promise - she had a duty.

And she supposed she'd caused one accident already today.

 

*

 

Alice had come to visit. Mycroft was alerted by her soft trill as she entered the room, announcing herself in her usual fashion. He smiled, patted his lap, and she trotted across with her tail in the air for a cuddle.

As they sat by the window together, and Mycroft found his heart calming, he scratched behind her ear.

"You must be warm, my dear. A fur coat in this weather." 

Alice was watching Greg and Jinx out of the window, as intrigued as if they were birds or mice. Mycroft smiled a little, following her gaze.

"Tomfoolery," he explained to her. Alice queried the term. "Shenanigans, sweetheart. The common folk call it 'fun'. We don't go in for that sort of thing though, do we?"

Alice butted his hand, nuzzling for more tickles and less talking.

A minute later, her trill of greeting opened Mycroft's eyes. He glanced down, realising that Alice had spotted a new person on the scene - Anthea, carrying fruit and water. 

Mycroft smiled. 

"What would any of us do without her, mm?" he asked his Siamese, who told him she didn't really know. "I imagine we'd all have perished long ago..."

He glanced down, watching as bottles of water were given - and then the heat of the summer day vanished at once, as ice filled Mycroft's veins.

_ What -  _

His every muscle stiffened; his mouth opened.

_ What are you -  _

Touching him. Sliding her hands over his biceps. Gazing at him - and he was gazing back - and Mycroft was sure for a moment he'd misunderstood. She was brushing an insect off him. Some reason. Some reason other than - than that she - 

She leant up to Greg's ear.

_ Oh please. _

_ Please, no. _

_ Please - do not make me witness - please - of everyone in this world, every person you could have, every man, please, please not -  _

And then he saw, as clear as daylight, Jinx Maguire twist the end of the hose to restart the water-flow - and the jet had a single intended target.

 

*

 

Jinx had never drenched a posh girl with a hose before. She decided to make the most of the experience, flooding Anthea full-on in the face without a moment's hesitation, catching Lestrade as well. He was collateral damage. He could take it. 

She kept it going for a good four or five seconds, until they'd recovered their senses enough to turn round to see what had happened.

"Oops," she said. "Christ, this hose. It's got a life of its own. Oh no, Anthea - you're all wet. That's unfortunate."

 

*

 

“Oh - Jesus, Maguire - Anthea, are you okay?” Greg asked, shaking his head to get the water out of his eyes.

“Perfectly,” she said, teeth clenched, eyes blazing as she glared at Jinx.

Something - the last phrase she had said, the  _ way _ she had said it, niggled at Greg’s brain.

He frowned and reached out, taking hold of her shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asked again, gently, bowing down and looking into her eyes.

Her expression had already iced over. Whatever he might have seen there was long gone.

She lifted her chin. “Perfectly,” she repeated, voice slightly chilly. She wiped her face down and wrung her hair out as best she could. Her gaze dropped to the ground, where she had dropped the tray and spilled the fruit.

Her gaze flicked back up to Jinx. “What an unfortunate accident. There’s more inside if you want it.”

She turned and headed inside with all the affronted grace and dignity of a wet cat.

Greg turned to Jinx, expression crooked. “Not sure that was your best move,” he said. “But thanks.”

 

*

 

_ More fruit or more disagreement? If you touch him again, we'll have more disagreement, princess. We'll have a whole lot more disagreement.  _

Jinx gave Greg an affronted look, shrugging.

"What?" she said. "The end is sensitive. Mr Holmes insisted on getting a posh hose. If we had a normal one, this wouldn't happen." She arched an eyebrow. "Oh, c'mon. It's only water. Besides, it does her good to look a little foolish sometimes. Helps keep her delusions of grandeur in check."

Her mouth twisted a little.

She then flicked the end of the hose, jetting him again across the car.

"See?" she shouted, drenching him from face to stomach and back. "It's out of control, Lestrade! The thing's a menace!"

 

*

 

Greg laughed and ducked behind the car, out of the spray. “ _ You’re _ a menace, Maguire!” he called, making his way around to try and get her from the other side.

It probably wouldn’t work. He’d probably just get another faceful of hose.

But it couldn’t hurt to try.

 

*

 

By the time Anthea had made her way back inside, all of her emotions were solidly locked down. She was the cool, consummate professional once again.

Even if she was soaked.

Luckily, the airing closet on the lower floor had towels, as well, so she didn’t have to make her way upstairs to dry off. When she was merely wet instead of drowned, she grabbed the tray of fruit, juice, and iced water from the water and brought it up to the office.

The tray was placed carefully on a side table, away from anything sensitive. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, Mr. Holmes,” she said calmly. “I find myself in need of a change of clothes.”

 

*

 

Jinx kept the hose going until he appeared around the car, jetted him in the face with it, then dropped it and sprinted laughing for the safety of the garage. The hose flailed like an angry snake, spraying water in every direction, and combat was resumed.

_ Mission accomplished. _

Anthea would punish her. Severely. Jinx was counting on it.

She would just punish Anthea right back.

 

*

 

Mycroft had closed the window. As Anthea entered the office, he was gathering papers together in silence, returning them to their allotted box files.

"I believe we've finished for the day," he said. "My productivity has escaped me. I'll finalise the report this evening or tomorrow, though I shan't need your help for that - a few final sentences. Likely to be within my capabilities."

The calm in his voice was faultless - though he didn't look up at her.

"You can consider yourself dismissed for the weekend, Anthea." He closed one of the box files and snapped shut the clasp. "I hope it's restful," he said, picked up the box file, and stepped quietly past her. 

His footsteps moved away along the corridor, and in through the door of his library - which then closed and locked in his wake.

 

*

 

_ Dismissed. _

In all Anthea’s years of service, she could count on one hand the number of times Mr. Holmes had ever dismissed her. Subtly encouraged to leave the room, certainly. Encouraged to go home, absolutely.

But dismissed? Hardly ever.

She swallowed hard, willed her heart to unclench, and made her way to her room. 

In silence, she changed, made herself presentable, and packed up her bag. It wasn’t as if she lived here, truly; she did  _ have  _ a flat. Quite a nice one, even.

She just didn’t see it very often.

Apparently she would be seeing it this weekend.

With her bag over her shoulder, Anthea made her way down the stairs and out the door. Her mobile was pressed to her ear, requesting another driver to take her back to London. Yes, she was aware Maguire was there. She was indisposed at the moment. Yes, a slight wait would be acceptable.

She ended the call and sat primly on a bench outside the house, shaded and cooler than standing in the sun. She had water and a novel to read while the driver made his way here.

She could wait.

She would be fine.

 


	26. Personal Dispute

Once the cars were thoroughly clean and the afternoon heat had eased off somewhat, Greg and Jinx called a truce and went inside. 

Greg headed upstairs to his room and towelled off quickly, still smiling a bit from the fun of their activities. As he changed, though, he couldn’t help but picture the fury in Anthea’s eyes when she had gotten sprayed with the hose.

He didn’t think it had been an accident. An accident would have had the hose off after a moment or two, not four or five. And Jinx hadn’t sounded at all apologetic - maybe even a little pleased with herself.

And he couldn’t get Anthea’s words out of his head.

_ Got any more? _

_ I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. _

His hands curled over the scars on his biceps. They weren’t from any incident she would have read about in his file.

Could she know?

If she knew, that meant…

_ I hope she’s okay. _

Anthea was so enigmatic, so closed off and aloof - Mycroft, at least, had let Greg in a little. Let him see beneath the mask.

And it had seemed, for the briefest of moments, that Anthea was going to let him in, too.

But the hose had ‘gone off’ and the moment had passed. From blazing fury to icy elegance - 

Greg shook his head. That sort of change spoke of shutting down, of locking things away, of burying your reactions so they couldn’t be used against you. 

Anthea didn’t need that any more than Mycroft did.

His mind was made up.

Greg finished changing into clean jeans and a t-shirt, and went on the hunt for his elusive employer.

 

*

 

As luck would have it, Greg managed to catch the man on his way out of the library.

“Oh - hey, Mr. Holmes?” he called, jogging up the rest of the stairs. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” The concern was clear in his tone.

 

*

 

His employer looked up with quiet surprise, laptop under one arm and an empty coffee mug in the other. Mycroft had changed from business formal into his more customary weekend clothing - a waistcoat and lighter linen shirt rolled to the elbow, reading glasses resting at the end of his nose. The heat had left a sheen across his collarbones.

"Mm? Yes - of course." Mycroft placed a hand on the library door, inviting Greg to step inside. "Please."

 

*

 

“Thanks.” Greg stepped inside and scruffed a hand through his hair, ruffling the hair on the back of his head. He forcibly ignored the casual attire and tempting sheen out of his head; now was not the time to get distracted by his libido.

“It's about Jinx and Anthea,” he said. “I dunno if you saw, but - Jinx blasted her in the face with the hose earlier. She says it was an accident, but I don't really believe her.”

He shifted, uncomfortable. “I'm...worried about her,” he admitted. “Anthea, I mean. She doesn't need Jinx hassling her like that.”

_ Especially if I know what I think I know. What were you going to tell me, Anthea? _

_ Are you okay? _

 

*

 

As Mycroft listened, a quiet frown crossed his face. He waited until Greg had finished speaking, then with some wariness, said,

"I'm afraid you've lost me. When you say 'blasted her in the face with the hose' - ... what exactly has gone on? None of this has been brought to my attention." 

 

*

 

“Earlier, when Jinx - ah, sorry. Maguire - and I were washing the cars, Anthea came out to give us water and some snacks,” he explained. 

“Anthea… kind of got in my space,” he admitted, “but not in an aggressive way.”

He inhaled, then exhaled hard. “And Maguire turned the hose on her. Got me a bit, too, but… I mean, she sprayed Anthea in the face. Directly. And not like a little squirt, I mean full blast, four or five seconds.”

Greg's hands went to his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He looked to the side. “I just can't see how it was an accident. And they've been tense lately. Not really interacting at all. There's sort of...tension between them.”

He looked at Mycroft, worry clear in his eyes. “I just… want to be sure Anthea is okay.”

 

*

 

Again, Mycroft listened - his face impassive, the only reaction his slightly deepening frown. Something didn't seem to make sense to him. The reading glasses did nothing to soften the expression.

At last, with a slight tilt of his head, he said,

"She 'kind of got in your space'." One eyebrow lifted. "Is this some slang I'm unfamiliar with?"

 

*

 

Greg's expression twisted, like he wasn't sure if he was amused or confused. 

“I guess so. You know, like. Got close to me?” he said. He gestured up and down, only a few inches from his chest. “But that's not - really the important part here.”

Why was the man so seemingly unconcerned by Jinx’s actions? Greg was fairly certain that Mycroft cared  _ about _ Anthea, if he didn't care  _ for _ her.

What the hell was going on?

 

*

 

Mycroft huffed, barely audible. It was a moment or two before he replied. He seemed to be reading Greg's face, searching for something written there that he couldn't quite make out - something Greg wasn't giving to him. It was a look Greg might have seen applied to other people in the past - people Mycroft usually then discussed with some displeasure in the car.

Regarding Greg over his glasses, he said,

"Anthea hasn't mentioned a word of this to me. Gallant of you to rush to her aid, but this sounds rather like horseplay... I suspect she'd prefer to settle her silly personal disputes personally. She's a private person."

He paused, still watching for something in Greg's face.

"Unless you're suggesting that I discipline Maguire for hijinks," he added. "Which seems a dangerous precedent to set."

 

*

 

Greg blinked, slightly baffled.

“...Right,” he said, frowning a little. “I… guess you’re right.”

His lips thinned.

_ What in the actual fuck _ .

_ What the fuck is with everyone? _

_ Maybe it’s the heat. _

_ What the fuck. _

Everyone but him seemed to have gone crazy; Jinx nailing Anthea with the hose, Anthea disappearing for the weekend, and now Mycroft, acting like he, Greg, was -

Well.

Was a subordinate, demanding he rectify a situation that was beneath him, not worthy of his attention. 

The realization hit Greg like a punch in the gut.

Rather than deflate, his shoulders went high and tight. “She was soaked,” he pointed out. “Thought you might have noticed. Been curious about what happened. Concerned, maybe. But I can see I was wrong.”

His jaw worked. “Just a bit of horseplay between underlings. My mistake.”

The skin around his eyes tightened. “Sorry to have bothered you, sir.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes shuttered. He seemed to take a moment to process this, unsettled. By the time he spoke again, a faint flush had begun in the very centre of his cheeks.

"You're clearly very concerned with Anthea's wellbeing."

 

*

 

“Someone has to be,” Greg said, eyes narrowed.

He took a breath and looked away. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, gesturing at Mycroft’s laptop. “Get out of your way.”

He turned and walked out of the library, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and shoulders hunched.

_ What the hell. _

_ I don’t understand any of this. _

 

*

 

The voice called after him, tight - suddenly sharp with a broken edge.

"If you had the level of concern for her that I do, Lestrade, you'd know that I honour her  _ privacy. _ That she'll choose to share with me what she wishes. She doesn't require some noble white knight to sweep in and - "

Mycroft shuttered, stopping. His face locked the thought away behind a breath. The flush in his cheeks deepened with distress.

"What do you want me to do? Discipline Maguire? The pair of you seemed in playful spirits until that point. And I'm now expected to chastise her for playfulness? For God's sake.  _ She's Maguire." _

 

*

 

Greg paused in the doorway. One hand came up and grabbed the doorframe, maybe to support him, maybe to help hold himself back.

_ White knight, am I? Stupid Lestrade, rushing in where he’s not welcome or wanted. _

“You’ve made your point, sir,” he said flatly, without turning around. “I’m sorry to have brought it up. There’s clearly nothing to be done, and it wasn’t any of my business. I’m sorry.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's mouth opened.

_ Don't you dare take that tone with me, Lestrade. I've made my point and I don't expect it to be challenged. I am your employer. Don't turn your back when I am speaking to you. Don't question how I run my household. Don't expect me to intervene when your romantic moments are interrupted. _

His heart was pounding; he couldn't see anything else but that turned back, the shoulders set.

_ Don't walk out of a room when I'm talking to you. Don't speak to me in that fashion. Don't sulk at me that I am uncaring.  _

The pain was unbearable. It wrenched shut his throat. Nothing left him, even as his heart bled. It drenched him in his own grief, soaking, darkening, everything pounding and the words were like black choking vines.

_ Don't turn away from me. Don't you dare tell me what she needs. She is mine and when you are gone, she is all I will have.  _

_ Don't you dare take her, too. _

_ Don't dare, the pair of you. _

_ Not the pair of you.  _

_ Don't make me watch that.  _

_ Don't make me watch you give her your closeness, your care, your kindness. You gave them to me once. Now you turn your back on me. Don't you dare. Don't you dare turn away from me. _

_ Don't you dare go. _

_ Please don't. _

_ Don't. Don't go. _

Mycroft closed his eyes.

A moment later, he closed his mouth.

Greg was right; there was nothing to be done.

 

*

 

Greg waited for another moment more.

_ Something else you wanna tell me? _

_ Something else you want to point out, show me how stupid and clueless I am? _

_ No? _

His arm dropped from the door frame, and he left, shaking his head a little as he went.

_ What the fuck. _

 

* * *

 

The weekend was rough for everyone. Mycroft spent it hiding from Greg, and Greg spent it burying himself in books and exercise, trying to keep his mind off the current situation. 

Probably would have been easier if he hadn't been receiving text messages from Anthea periodically. Even after being essentially warned off of her, he couldn't stop worrying about her. She seemed distressed, still.

So when he received a message inviting him round Sunday afternoon, he accepted. It was difficult to find Mycroft to get permission to leave for the afternoon, but he managed it.

He found Jinx in the garage, tinkering with her bike.

“Hey,” he called.

They had been on shaky ground, but at least they were still speaking to each other.

Unlike he and Mr. Holmes. Or her and Anthea.

_ Jesus, what a mess this household is. _

 

*

 

Jinx looked up in surprise at the call. She hadn't thought anyone was around this afternoon - Mr Holmes holed up in the library, Anthea gone, Greg pumping iron. It had been a quiet and unsettling day so far. Even her usual eighties rock hadn't been able to dispel the gloomy atmosphere.

"Oh - hey!" Her smile was bright and open, somehow friendlier for the streak of oil across her face. The stuff had smudged up her forearms, too, and there were rags on the floor all around her. "You okay?" she asked over the music, and leant across to the radio to turn it down. "Don't trip on anything - I know it's a mess in here. I'll have it sorted out before Mr Holmes sees it."

 

*

 

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine,” Greg said, giving her a small smile in return. 

“Don't worry about him seeing it,” he said, smiling wryly. “I'm sure he won't be down for ages.” 

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “Are you free?” He asked. “I need to go see Anthea, but I don't know where her flat is. I was hoping you could take me.”

He shifted uncomfortably. He was certain it was an awkward request, but he did need to go see Anthea. And without it being an emergency, he didn't much want to take one of the cars, himself.

_ What a mess. _

 

*

 

_ No. _

_ No... no, no. _

"Anthea?"  _ No, no, Jesus no.  _ Jinx kept her eyes occupied with the bike and a rag, letting her tone stay easy, her face calm. "There's a place we pick her up from sometimes... I assume she's got a flat somewhere near there. I've never been invited, funnily enough."

Knowing it was suspicious to keep her head down too long, she lifted her face and looked at Greg over the seat - just the top of her head and a pair of big eyes.

"Aren't you - meant to be with Mr Holmes?" she said, gingerly. "Sorry to - ... I don't wanna be 'that person', I just don't really want a second bollocking in two days. If you've not got permission, I... can't really get involved."

 

*

 

“Oh, Jesus, no,” Greg said, laughing a little and holding his hands up. “No, Jesus. No, I got permission.”

He shook his head. “Had to hunt him down to get it, but he said it was fine. I wouldn't ask you to kidnap me.”

His head tilted to the side. “Mr. Holmes gave you a bollocking?” he asked, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

 

*

 

Christ, this was getting worse. Mycroft had given permission. Why? Had Greg told him the truth? Jinx had a thousand desperate questions, and not a single one of them was any of her fucking business. There wasn't a sly way to ask them. She'd risked her cover enough recently, interfering in people's lives - people's relationships.

But if Greg was going to see Anthea...

_ Jesus. I'm not paid enough to deal with this.  _

_ Holmes is alive. That's it. That's my job done.  _

"Ah, yeah..." she said, "yesterday." Picking up a rag from the floor, she clean off her hands. "Apparently I'm creating an 'unprofessional work environment' and upsetting Anthea. Couldn't exactly tell him she pressured me to have sex with her, I said no and now she's punishing me for it... wouldn't have believed me anyway. So I just shut up and let him shout."

She pulled a face, tossed the rag aside and got up from the floor, dusting off her knees.

"Didn't think she'd go to him over a daft joke," she admitted. "Not usually like her. Then again, you never really know your workmates, do you? D'you mind if I drive you out of uniform? It'll save me going to get changed."

She snatched a bunch of keys from the side, tossing them to Greg.

"Just going to wash my hands," she said cheerfully, reaching for the kitchen door. "Two minutes. Get us a decent playlist loaded."

 

*

 

_ Oh, Jesus. _

“Jinx - wait,” Greg said, reaching out and catching Jinx by the arm. “It was me. Not Anthea. I went to him - told him what happened.”  _ Goddammit. _

_ There’s no good way to say ‘I didn’t think he would actually reprimand you’ without digging myself deeper. _

_ Just own it. _

He swallowed a little, tightening his grip on the keys automatically.  _ Christ, I fucked this one up, didn’t I? _ “Look, I know you two - things aren’t good, but I also think you were out of line. I didn’t mean to set Mr. Holmes on you. I should have said something to you, myself. And I am sorry that I went over your head with it. But...” 

He gave her a bit of a look. “Would you have done it if she hadn’t been pawing at me?” he asked, voice low, searching her expression. “Honestly?”

 

*

 

Jinx searched his face right back. There was a long, silent moment. 

She then looked away, dropped her gaze, and reached for the door.

"Doesn't matter why I did it," she said. The smile was gone from her eyes. "You can do what you like, mate." She stepped through the door, nudging it quietly shut behind her. "Won't be long."

When she returned, she had her hat and black jacket on, pulled over her white t-shirt. The engine oil was gone from her cheek.

"How long will you be?" she asked, sliding into the driver's seat. 

_ How long are you leaving him alone for, Mr Honour?  _

_ She summoning you for a quick slam against the front door? Or is Madame to receive the full works? _

 

*

 

“Not long?” Greg offered, sliding in next to her and handing over the keys. “I don't know, honestly. She didn't say much. Just asked me to come by.”

He rubbed at his face, unsure what to say. He couldn't really say anything about Anthea; it was pretty clear Jinx thought very little of the woman and didn't care much for her state of mind.

Couldn't mention Mr. Holmes; that was a minefield and a half.

“Catch the match on Wednesday?”

_ Great. Perfect. Very casual. And asinine.  _

_ Great. _

 

*

 

_ Just asked you to come by, did she? _

_ You're a fucking idiot Lestrade. _

As the Jaguar rolled out of the garage, heading for the lane, Jinx wondered how many people Lestrade would have left Mr Holmes for - how many people in the world had that power. She wondered how bad things must have gotten, that Lestrade was happy to leave - and on such a casual summons, too.  _ Christ, you could've been so good. Where did it all go wrong? Love and roses, a few weeks ago. Now you'll leave him to fend for himself.  _

_ And you'll snitch on me, to defend her. _

Her first response to the question -  _ 'Piss off, Lestrade...' -  _ seemed harsh, even with the current state of things. She rolled it back, told herself they'd be stuck together in this car for nearly two hours, and said,

"What was Wenger thinking, bringing Walcott on that early?"

She reached for the stereo, switching it on. Her USB stick lit up as a random playlist loaded.

"Thing about Arsenal," she said. "They always try and walk it in..." 

The conversation continued for ten minutes down the road - sport and TV, the news and the weather. Safe, meaningless things.

Eventually, they settled into awkward quiet around the music. 

She couldn't stop thinking about where they were going. She had a feeling they wouldn't be coming back this way as the same people. This wasn't a casual thing. She knew it in her bones, not even halfway there. This was a mess, and she was driving Lestrade on his way to make it even worse. Mr Holmes was back at the house alone. 

_ Christ, he'd better have given you permission... if I find out you lied... _

Then again, could things really get any worse at this point?

_ Fucking Anthea.  _

Anger, Jinx realised, for her; pity and contempt for him. She was vicious; he was stupid. The thinking was so stereotypical that Jinx hated herself at once for thinking it, but she couldn't let it go.  _ He'd have made you happy, Lestrade. Guy thinks the fucking world of you. She'll chew you up and spit you out. _

_ Christ... whatever. _

_ Do whatever the hell you all want. So long as Mr Holmes is alive. I don't care. _

Ten minutes from the flat, they found themselves stuck in traffic. Jinx rubbed listlessly between her eyes as they inched forwards, trying to cut through the fog in her head.

_ What are you trying to do, princess? What's the game? _

_ Is this about me? _

Arrogant, she thought. It was possible, though, if not for one thing: Mr Holmes.

Anthea had always seemed to care about him - it was the only fact Jinx thought she'd known for certain about Anthea. This whole mess was making her rethink it, and fast.

Maybe Anthea honestly hadn't noticed how Greg and Mr Holmes looked at each other. Maybe she'd noticed, and didn't care. Maybe she'd decided that Greg was now pulling away from Mr Holmes, so he was fair game and she might as well. 

_ Maybe if I'd fucked you, this wouldn't have happened. You wouldn't have needed to move onto Lestrade... maybe this is my fault. I should've just gone to bed with you. _

_ Jesus Christ, what am I doing?  _

_ Why am I helping you do this to Mr Holmes? Why did the stupid bastard give you permission, Lestrade? What did he THINK she wants you for? _

_ You'd better be out of that flat in ten minutes, dickhead.  _

_ Or the pair of you can piss right off... you and her. _

As they pulled up outside the flat, Jinx switched off the engine and reached for the glovebox.

"I'll hang on here," she said, jemmying her magazine free. "Fire into the sky three times if you need back-up." The joke was delivered without humour.

As the magazine came loose, Jinx's customary packet of Doritos shifted - and she spotted a glimpse of something behind them that made her blink.  _ What the hell is...?  _

It looked like the edge of a strip of black lace. 

She kept her face unmoved, unrolling the magazine as if she'd not spotted anything.

 

*

 

“Right,” Greg said, attempting to smile. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

He got out of the car and rolled his shoulders.  _ What the hell are you doing, Lestrade? _

_ Is it worth it? Honestly? _

To lose his friendship with Jinx over this? To be on the rocks with Mycroft over this?

_ Yeah. Yeah, it is. _

Because if he was right, Anthea needed someone who knew. 

_ And if you’re wrong, you’ve fucked everything up. _

Well, all he could do was hope that Anthea wouldn’t play him like that. Wouldn’t do that to him.

All Greg could do was hope. 

Like always.

He walked up to the flat and pressed the buzzer. The name at the side caught his eye;  _ Anthea _ .

No last name. Typical.

As he was shaking his head and smiling to himself, he was let in.

_ Posh people, _ he thought to himself with amusement as he walked up the front path.

Anthea greeted him at the door with a small smile, ushering him in. She didn’t even seem to register the car sitting outside her flat.

“Tea? Coffee?” she offered. “Shoes off at the door, please.”

“Uh, tea, thanks,” he said, toeing his shoes off and looking around. The flat was posh and luxurious, like the estate. Just as elegant, although Anthea seemed to favor creams and greens.

There was something different about it, though, and until he met her in the kitchen, Greg couldn’t put his finger on what.

The flat didn’t feel lived in. It was more of a display than anything; something realtors would show off to prospective buyers. A showcase for furniture and decor. Not a place someone came home to.

It made his heart twist, because not long ago, his own flat had had the same feeling.

 

*

 

Anthea took a small pleasure in startling Lestrade with his cup of tea, reveling in the quiet noise he made just before he accepted the cup. She gave him half a smirk before leaning against the counter with her own cup of tea.

This was probably the most casual he had ever seen her, she realized: a fitted, plain t-shirt and slim-cut jeans, hair in damp, loose waves around her face, and very little to speak of in the way of makeup.

Of course, her clothes had cost more than anything  _ he _ would have ever purchased, but they were still more casual than anything she would even think to wear out of the house. 

Another realization hit her: 

This was the first time she had had someone over to her flat with any intention besides sex.

That caused an odd feeling to roil through her that she packed away to be examined at a later date.

Maybe.

Her eyes flicked up when Lestrade cleared his throat and said, “Enjoyed your weekend?”

She studied him for a moment before replying.

“It has been adequate. And you?”

He shifted awkwardly.

_ So. Things are still unsettled. That will need to be rectified. _

“It’s been… alright. Things are… things are weird,” he admitted.

A few thoughts crossed his face, none of which she cared enough about to decipher. She did take note when he set his teacup aside and turned to face her, having evidently come to some sort of a decision.

“Look, you’re not really one for small talk,” he said.

She tilted her head in acknowledgement and waited for him to carry on.

“So I’ll just get to it.”

Lestrade bit his lip and looked her squarely in the eyes.

“Anthea, are you okay?”

 

*

 

Greg waited for Anthea’s reaction, silently begging for something,  _ anything. _

He got nothing but a contemplative look.

“Why do you ask, Lestrade? Do I not seem ‘okay’?” she asked. There was a hint of danger to the question:  _ tread very carefully, or I will toss you out on your ear. _

He inhaled, and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to expose the lower two of the scars on his left bicep. He gave her a searching look.

“Do you know how I got these scars?” he asked, voice low. 

_ Please say no. _

_ Please say yes. _

_ Say something. Anything. _

_ Let me in. _

_ Are you okay? _

The only reason he caught the minute tightening of her expression was because he was looking for it.

She nodded, just once.

He let out his breath, slowly, rolling down his sleeves as he went.

“Did you mean it?” he asked. He knew she would know what he meant.

Anthea tilted her head fractionally, inclining it. “I did.”

“...okay. I want to see.”

 

*

 

Anthea took a breath.  _ Jesus. This is stupid. _

_ If you ever tell anyone about this, Lestrade, you will wish you had never been born. _

_ I will ruin you utterly. _

“Fine. Come with me.” She set her tea aside and led him through the flat. She didn’t much care what he saw; very little was on display that was personal.

Her bedroom was even less so. She knew someone looking at it would have a hard time distinguishing between it and a guest room.

If she had had one, that is. The flat had come with one, which she had immediately turned into an office.

No one ever stayed the night.

She turned to face him and began undoing her jeans, sliding them down her hips.

 

*

 

Greg inhaled a little in surprise, but said nothing as Anthea stepped out of her jeans and sat on the bed.

He still said nothing when she then spread her legs and beckoned him close.

He crouched before her and let his eyes follow her hands up the inside of her thighs. He was about to go off on her, yell that she was trying to play him and what did she think she was doing, when he saw them.

Thin, silvery-white scars, barely visible against the skin of the inside of her thighs. Quite precisely placed. One had to be looking for them to see them, and he figured (with a bit of wryness) that anyone who got this close usually had other things on their mind.

“When…?” he asked, glancing up at her. 

She looked down at him, arms braced behind her back. Half naked and looking down at him through half-lidded eyes, she should have looked sultry, seductive.

She just looked vulnerable, and maybe a little sad.

“Not since I was a teenager,” she said softly. There was a note of something in her voice, like she was trying to reassure him.

“You sure?”

_ Are you okay? _

 

*

 

_ Sweet man. You will be perfect for Mr. Holmes. _

Anthea’s lip curled softly in a tiny smile. “I’m sure,” she murmured to Lestrade.

He opened his mouth to say something else, and she silenced him with a finger to his lips.

He blinked, and let himself be pushed back until she had room to stand.

They paused like that a moment, he on his heels, her standing above him.

She reached down and cupped his cheek, pulling him to stand. Popping up on her tiptoes, she ghosted a gentle kiss across his cheek. “I’m okay,” she promised in his ear.

Back on flat feet, she graced him with another small smile.

_ No wonder Mr. Holmes is smitten. You are too easy to be around.  _

A weaker woman than Anthea might have fallen for him, too. Tried to take him for herself. But she could say with complete certainty that she had no physical or romantic interest in him whatsoever.

A friend, maybe. 

She tilted her head. “Are you okay?”

 

*

 

Greg blinked, surprised by the question. “I…”

He paused. Anthea deserved an honest answer after that display of vulnerability.

“I… don’t think so. But… I will be,” he finally said, after a long moment.

She smiled with her eyes and patted his cheek. “Good.”

She shooed him out - “Go browse my books, I just got a delivery in” - presumably so she could get dressed.

 

*

 

Time disappeared without Greg quite realizing it. It was only when he looked up and half an hour had gone by that he swore and closed the book they had been arguing over.

He gave Anthea a sheepish smile when she gave him a raised brow.

“Been here longer than I meant to. J--ah, Maguire is still outside.”

Her expression shuttered. “Right.” She slouched back in the chair in a manner that still seemed posed. She flicked her fingers dismissively. “Go on, then.”

He stood and chewed on his lip. “Anthea…?”

She gave him a silent look.

“Did you… did you  _ really _ pressure Maguire into sex?”

Her expression went from ‘shuttered’ to ‘total icy lock-down’. “No.”

There could not have been a drop more firmness in her voice.

Greg relaxed a little.  _ Thank God. _

_ That means I made the right choice. _

“But… something did happen, that night?” he asked.

Her lips thinned, just a bit. She stood and walked to the door in silence, and he winced a little as he followed her.

_ I pushed too much. Too far. Now she’ll never want to speak to me again. I shouldn’t have-- _

“If you want to know more about what happened that night,” Anthea’s voice came, startling him out of his thoughts, “ask her about the stomach bug she got.” 

‘Glacial’ wasn’t a cold enough term for her tone. ‘Sub-arctic’, maybe. 

He was just glad it wasn’t directed at him.

“Right…” Greg got his shoes on and waited until she had opened the door and shooed him out.

_ Now or never _ .

He bent down and pulled her into a brief hug before stepping back and smiling. “Thanks, Anthea. For everything.”

He grinned when he saw that she was briefly startled out of her icy lockdown. Her expression immediately closed off again, but less so than before. He’d count that as a win.

She rolled her eyes and pushed him. “Get out of here, Lestrade. Your chariot awaits.” She turned and stepped back into the flat, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click.

Greg’s grin had faded to a soft smile as he slid into the car. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he commented, buckling up. “Lost track of time.”

 

*

 

Jinx had neither magazine nor phone in her hand as Greg reappeared; she was just waiting, her forearms resting on the wheel. She was watching the cars go by at the end of the street.

"It's fine," she said.

There was a silence. 

She looked across at him. It seemed to cause her difficulty, as if she didn't quite want to put her eyes on him. Her jaw was tight; her cheeks were grey.

"What did she want with you?" she asked.

 

*

 

Greg bit his lip slightly. “It’s… a bit private,” he said. “A lot private, actually.” His lips twisted. “I know you two don’t… really get on.”

He shifted in his seat. “She… wanted to show me something. That’s all I’ll say.”

If he had to take this to the grave, Greg knew he wouldn’t be sharing Anthea’s secret with anyone she hadn’t expressly told him he could.

He very much doubted there was a list of people who were cleared to know, and if there was, Jinx definitely wasn’t on it.

_ ‘Ask her about her stomach bug.’ _

He could. He could push it, see what the hell, exactly, had gone down that night. Why they were so antagonistic, what Anthea had done, what Jinx had done.

But, Greg thought to himself, settling into his seat, he had meddled enough already. Probably too much.

Some things, you just had to let lie.

 

*

 

Nothing registered in Jinx's face. She seemed to take a moment to let the words fall into place, her eyes low. 

She then reached for the ignition, turned the key, and in silence pulled the car away from the kerb. As they reached the main road out of London, she turned the radio on without a thought - a Sunday afternoon quiz, none of which she seemed to hear. 

The same strange lack of emotion kept hold of her features right to the steps of the house, where she unlocked the doors and waited for Greg to get out.

She'd barely said a word since London.

 

*

 

Greg’s expression twisted a little. He wanted to say something, anything.

But what?

There was nothing to say.

He exhaled softly and got out of the car, heading into the house.

 


	27. Princess

He found her out by the disused stables.

There was a bench there, facing the pond. On a sunny day it made a rather nice place to sit, quiet and tucked away, overlooked by only a few windows of the house. Mycroft had found the occasional cigarette stub hidden in nearby plants. He'd known for a while that she liked it here; a surprising inclination towards solitude.

Maguire heard him coming on the gravel path. She glanced up, nervous - and as she recognised him, he saw her expression fill at once with distress.

Looking back, he should have taken it as his answer.

He should have turned around. The moment he saw her eyes, saw the discomfort that just the sight of him caused, he'd discovered everything he needed to know. He should have accepted it. He should have carried the wound away and made his peace.

There was no need to hear it. There was no need to press on, to cross quietly to her side and sit on the bench beside her, and have the awful truth branded into his soul.

But a tiny, desperate chance drove him on - the chance that he was wrong.

_Paranoia. No more._

_'A friend', he said. A friend in London._

_He went to a bar. Had a drink. A former co-worker. A schoolmate._

Maguire didn't make a sound as Mycroft sat down beside her. She continued to smoke, rubbing the cigarette nervously between her fingertips, and the shake in her wrist was his second missed warning to stand up and leave.

A long tense silence opened up around them.

By far the braver of the two, Maguire was the one to break it.

"S-Sorry, Mr Holmes. I - I know I shouldn't - " She made to stub out the cigarette.

Mycroft reached out. He put a hand on her arm, and stopped her.

Jinx held completely still; the silence strained between them.

"I need to ask you something," he said, and felt her arm shake at once beneath his fingers. It was his third and final warning. Mycroft ignored it, his chest tight around that tiny feeble flicker of hope, wanting too much to hear he was wrong. _'He met a bloke outside a pub, Mr Holmes. They had a pint in the window, had a natter. That's all.'_

Maguire hadn't looked at him at all since he reached her. "Alright," she said, and he knew she was feigning calm.

"I wish for you to give me an honest answer," he said, even as he fought the urge to vomit, "and then not devote any of your thoughts to why I wish to know this. It's important for reasons that won't affect you."

She paused, squeezing her cigarette between two fingers.

"Alright," she said again.

Mycroft felt the tiny spark of hope begin to flicker - brighter, hotter, more desperate. It almost hurt to say the words.

"Where - did you take Greg this afternoon?"

He watched her eyes shut.

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

"Was it to - Anthea's residence?" he asked.

Without a sound, she nodded.

Mycroft's heart twisted into his throat. He was somehow still able to speak, even as he broke apart. "How long was he there?"

Maguire's hand shook on the cigarette. She pushed it into her mouth, her eyes still shut tight. "Half an hour."

_No._

Mycroft's voice spoke somewhere from his chest. He couldn't feel his hands, his throat or his mouth anymore - he wasn't anything anymore. He was just a voice hearing things it couldn't cope with.

"When he left - " His heart clenched. "Did he - h-how did - "

Maguire pushed her hands across her face.

"Hugging." She dropped the word as she dropped her cigarette, crushing both of them beneath her foot. "Smiling."

_No._

_No, no..._

"Don't think she realised her fly was open," Maguire muttered, looking away across the grounds, shoulders shaking - and Mycroft let it sink into his skin.

He let it find the tiny flame, roll over it in a wave of strangling cold, and douse the spark of hope into nothing.

It had happened, then.

It was over.

A handful of days, and something had begun - and by its very nature, it ended that which came before.

_He and I began in a handful of days. What 'he and I' there was._

_It's not so unthinkable that something else would begin as quickly._

The only difference was the chance of reciprocation. Mycroft, male; Anthea, female. Only one of them could find their affections returned.

He couldn't blame her.

 _Why should she not?_ Mycroft curled his fingers into his palms, his throat clenching, trying to hide the tremble of his hands from Maguire. _He is a wonderful man. She has no reason not to. And he has every reason to admire her._

As he shut his eyes, Mycroft told himself this pain had been coming from the beginning, as sure as death and taxes. He was a fool to have convinced himself it wouldn't. He hadn't realised it would come so swiftly - but it would have come, one day. Lestrade would have found someone to love, and the one-sided nature of their bond would have been revealed in all its pathetic glory: an ageing politician, and the handsome heterosexual bodyguard he longed for. _Pathetic. Inevitable. Predictable from the beginning._

_I thought it would be alright._

_God help me. I was wrong._

Wild distress cast his thoughts into the future, as long and dark as evening shadows, showing him all the pain yet to come. Locked into this moment by grief, he could somehow see every detail of the years ahead in sharp and agonising clarity. Courtship. Affection. Commitment - engagement, marriage - maternity. They fell like dominos through Mycroft's pounding heart, one after the other. She would leave.

All this time worrying about Lestrade - and _she_ would leave him, too.

He'd thought himself invulnerable to the worst case scenario. He'd _known_ Lestrade would go someday. He'd chosen to ignore it, and let his heart grow soft and fond.

And the universe had punished him with a conclusion so painful he hadn't even dreamed of it.

He'd have to watch them fall in love. He'd have to hear Lestrade sneaking to her room in the night, and watch them glancing at each other when they thought they couldn't be seen. He'd have to see it all unfolding day-by-day before his gaze, the beautiful happiness of two beautiful people, and as they grew young in each other's eyes, he'd grow older and older in their orbit.

_I could have foreseen._

The worst part. All this pain had been there in the beginning, all of it, every tiny twist of this agony. He'd pushed it aside, giddy and reckless and stupid, all for a pair of brown eyes that seemed to enjoy looking into his own. _Was I always so lonely, so pathetic, that that was all it took?_

_I knew he was once married. I knew he was heterosexual. I even knew that Anthea found his photograph evocative..._

_Stupid, stupid._

_Stupid._

Mycroft had his answers now - answers he should have accepted when first he was given them.

_God help me. I am going to be lonely._

His fault, for assuming she would stay. Assuming she was above such things, and wouldn't ever leave him in pursuit of them. Selfishly he'd counted on her as some sort of pseudo-daughter, imagining her company and her loyalty for many years to come, and it had taken Lestrade to show up the truth of everything. Mycroft had dedicated his life to work. He'd gathered around himself a quiet handful of people, then conveniently forgotten they were paid employees and not family. He didn't know family in the way that Lestrade did. He hadn't been taught how to build those bonds. He'd only managed a pathetic illusion of one.

And now he'd learned.

It made him almost nauseous, how smug he'd been. Candlelit dinner in a restaurant, enjoying it as if it were a date. His handsome Lestrade. Indulging all of his soft and reckless longings, letting this happen, bringing it into being step by step by step.

They'd had their first time this afternoon. The two of them.

Anthea's flat.

She'd been able to kiss him, touch him. Feel his skin. Weave their fingers together. Those playful brown eyes, closing with enjoyment.

The two of them, close.

Mycroft hadn't been close to someone's skin in over a decade. He wouldn't be again. Once, that likelihood hadn't hurt him - it was a fact and he'd made his peace.

Then he'd walked into an office, laid his eyes on a smiling stranger, and sacrificed all his peace for hope - hope that he'd always known was hopeless.

Maguire was still beside him on the bench. The silence had fallen over them together. He could feel her grieving beside him, pouring out pain as palpable as heat.

_Anthea._

In the wreckage of his heart, Mycroft recognised the misery of other broken bonds of affection.

_We fell together, Maguire. We loved above our stations. We hoped. Instead we learned._

"Thank you for your honesty," he heard his voice say, somewhere outside of himself. It didn't sound like his voice.

Maguire's voice didn't sound like hers. "There anything I can do, Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft took a moment. It hurt to speak.

"I don't imagine so," he said at last. "No."

There was an awful silence.

"I'd - better..." Maguire shifted, looking away towards the garage. Her shoulders were high and stiff. "Need to lock up for the night. Get things ready for the morning."

The morning. Monday. Work.

Anthea by his side all day; Greg by his side all day.

Mycroft couldn't bear the thought. Somehow, he would have to.

"Yes," he said, numbly. "Yes, of course... you - do as you must."

She got up from the bench, her movements heavy. For a moment, it seemed as if she were going to say something - then she turned, slipped her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and walked away, her head low.

Mycroft watched her go around the stables.

He looked down at his hands, watching them shake.

As he tried to tell himself it would all be alright, the grief at last took flame. It burned through him so sharply it cut out all his senses.

He put his head into his hands, drew in a shaking breath, and without a sound began to cry.

 

*

 

Greg wandered through the house, feeling oddly restless and ill at ease. Though he was now convinced that Anthea was doing alright, no one else seemed to be. It was in the air, a sort of tension.

Like the weight of the sky before a storm.

It was the silence that tipped him off; told him no one was in the house but himself. He toyed briefly with the idea of going and seeking out Jinx, asking her what had happened at the restaurant.

But no. That had been clearly marked as ‘ _None of your damn business, Lestrade’_.

That brought his thoughts back to Mr. Holmes, as his thoughts always seemed to go. _Mr. Holmes_.

_Fuck me, I’ve bollocksed up that one, haven’t I?_

Allowing himself to flirt and play as though Mr. Holmes wasn’t his employer, but a friend, a potential partner.

Then the night -- had it been a month ago? A month and a half? So little time -- with Adrienne on the landing. That disastrous night.

If Greg had the power to turn back time, he would have used it to fix things right then and there.

If only he knew how.

And then Mycroft had stopped touching him. Had actively avoided touching him, and that had hurt.

And now he had fucked it up more, possibly for good.

_Is it worth it, to save one person, if you hurt others in the process?_

_If they don’t even need saving in the first place?_

He barely restrained himself from punching the wall, and instead laid his head against it, struggling to breathe through the well of emotion that had decided to crop up in his chest.

_Yes._

_Yes, because I wish someone had saved me._

_I wish someone had asked me if I was okay._

_No one should have to suffer alone._

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Greg let his feet lead the way, blindly wandering the house in search of something. What that something was, he didn’t know.

He ended up in one of the less-used rooms in the house; one wall was nearly entirely taken up by large paned windows that faced out towards the stables.

His fingertips brushed the glass gently. A spot of motion caught his eye.

A ball of ice replaced his heart and began freezing his blood.

_Mycroft._

_Oh, Jesus._

_Jesus._

The man was sitting on a bench, hunched over.

Weeping.

Greg’s teeth clenched, his hands curled into fists, and he leaned against the glass as though he could phase through it. Run to the man, comfort him, fix whatever it was that was wrong. Gather him close and let him cry, soothe him and rock him and rub his back.

But that wasn’t his place anymore. Never had been, really.

Unthinking, his knees slowly folded underneath him until he was curled in a ball. One hand still pressed to the glass, open and yearning. So close, and yet so far.

_What have I done?_

_Fuck, this is all my fault._

_I can’t fix this._

“I’m so sorry.” The whisper came unbidden from his lips.

There was no one but him to hear it.

He covered his face with his other hand and choked back his own grief. The pain he knew his employer was feeling, his grief for Anthea, his sadness at losing his bond with Jinx; all of it he swallowed down until it left him shaking. It rolled through him in waves and he thought he would drown in it.

_Good._

_You don’t get to cry. You deserve this._

_You fucked up._

_You can’t fix this._

 

* * *

 

Another hour's drive. Half an hour parked in the car, two streets away, thinking in silence and staring at her own reflection in the windshield.

_Can't. Enough trouble already. Enough fuss already._

_Can't not._

Part of her soul was still sitting on that bench with Mr Holmes, feeling him fall apart. She'd listened to him give up. She'd listened to him grieve for the first person he'd loved in years. There wouldn't be another Lestrade. God didn't make many people like that. That was it now for Mr Holmes. Done - the ink was dry. The story was over.

Jinx didn't believe in happy endings. She believed in happiness though, rare as it was. She believed good things in life came along now and then, and they deserved every chance to succeed.

She believed in justice, too - and loyalty.

It was the disloyalty that rose the foul taste in her mouth, the disloyalty that had stopped her driving away. If someone else had come along - some girlfriend, some boyfriend, someone who'd had the balls to make a play for Lestrade and win him fairly - that was one thing. Mr Holmes would have been an idiot for not claiming him sooner.

But Anthea had known.

She'd known the whole time. She knew she could have anyone, anyone in the whole fucking world. Everyone longed for her. Everyone wanted her.

There was only one person Mr Holmes had wanted.

 _Fuck, why has this gotten to me?_ Placing her head in her hands, wrapping her arms over the back of her neck, Jinx breathed in the scent of the steering wheel and tried to think. Six years, and she hadn't cared.

 _Got too close,_ she thought. Before Lestrade, she'd just been a driver. He'd arrived and turned her into a friend. He'd blown through the house like the first winds of March, driving all the dust away - and Mr Holmes had bloomed like a fucking rose, and been happy, and they'd all watched him come alive.

_You should have been happy, princess. Happy for him. We were all happy for him._

_Instead you took it off him. Just 'cause you can._

It was cruel. It was unnecessary. It was too far.

Drawing a sharp breath, Jinx realised she couldn't sit here all night. _Say what you have to say,_ she told herself. _Then walk the fuck away. Things can't get worse. Tell her or carry it with you._

She left the car, locked it up, and turned the collar on her leather jacket against the night breeze. She'd come in her casual clothing, nose stud and white shirt and Doc Martens, in the hope that it said: _this isn't about work. This is about you._ Pocketing the keys to the Jag, she made her way to Anthea's flat in silence, her shoulders set, her jaw tight. She knocked on the door and waited, pushing her tongue around her cheek.

She wouldn't be here for long. She didn't want to go inside - she didn't even want to talk about it.

She just needed something to be said.

She was too wound up to realise she'd not come as Jessamine Maguire. She'd come as herself, and it showed in her face. The person now standing on Anthea's doorstep was not the cheerful driver who'd known her for six years. This was a stranger - and not a stranger who came as a friend.

 

*

 

The knock on her door came as a surprise to Anthea. While plenty of people knew where she lived (or at least, knew the address of her flat), very few people dared to show up without being summoned.

No one, in fact.

She placed a bookmark in the novel she had been reading and took the glasses off her nose, setting book and glasses aside. It irritated her a little to be called upon on the weekend; forced rest though it was, she did still have plans to take advantage of it.

Without looking through the peephole, she opened the door, a minute frown between her brows. “What --”

She paused, blinked, processed.

_Maguire._

It took her a second or two to recognize the woman. There was something altogether _different_ about her; not her clothing or anything as trivial as that. Something deeper.

Even as she realized it, fury rolled over her and buried the thoughts. **_Maguire._ **

_What the_ fuck _do you want?_

The frown disappeared, to be replaced by an icy look of haughty disdain.

“Yes?”

Her tone was frigid and dismissive. ‘ _Even standing here is a waste of my time. Get on with it and go.’_

 

*

 

Jinx held her gaze. The driver's eyes were older, sharper, their light dulled by a weariness that went beyond mere dislike. It was unequivocal and unforgiving disappointment.

There was a moment's silence - and then she said, quietly,

"You're perfect."

Her accent had changed. The cheerful patter was gone; in its place, the words were spoken by a voice that knew how to use them.

She meant every single one.

"You are beautiful," she said, as her eyes burned with anger in the low light, her voice calm and her chest aching. "Intelligent. Smart. Different notions entirely. You could have the entire world laid out beneath the heel of your shoe, if you wanted it."

Her eyes narrowed.

"It wasn't quite enough though, was it? Where's the fun in having the entire world, if there's a small piece of it belongs to someone else?"

 

*

 

Anthea’s eyes narrowed.

_How dare you._

_How dare you assume that I have taken Lestrade._

_How dare you assume I have anything but Mr. Holmes’ best interests in mind._

Every feeling, every hurt, every outrage - she locked it down, locked it away.

She would let the woman speak her piece. Maybe then she would leave and let Anthea get on with her job:

Supporting Mr. Holmes.

Her chin raised, just a little, defiant. Her eyes glittered, her arms folded. _So what?_ everything about her screamed.

 _So what if I have taken Lestrade to bed?_ (She hadn’t.)

 _So what if I have stolen something of Mr. Holmes’?_ (She wouldn’t.)

_So what? I know the world belongs to me. Everything is mine and I deserve to have it._

Haughty upper-class untouchable woman was a familiar guise for Anthea.

And it was so much easier to wear a guise when it was what the other person was expecting to see.

 

*

 

Jinx huffed.

"There it is," she murmured, reading Anthea's face slowly. "Honesty at last. Took me long enough to reach it... I knew we'd get there in the end."

She passed her tongue around her back teeth.

"I had to be honest today, too," she said, almost conversational. Her eyes darkened ever more. "To Mr Holmes. He asked me where I drove your lover this afternoon. I told him it was to you. I broke the lonely bastard into pieces."

She held Anthea's gaze.

"Thank you for leaving that to me. Making me do that to him. Making him cry. Thank goodness he's got people to reach out to for comfort, mm? That extensive emotional support network of his. His family. You. Lestrade. Endless loving friends at every turn."

 

*

 

_Lover._

_Ha._

That was funny for so many reasons, chief among them that Anthea had never had a lover. Plenty of sexual partners (conquests, whatever), plenty of dalliances, plenty of one night stands.

No lovers, though.

The word was right there in it: _love._

And that was a thing Anthea didn’t do.

But she wasn’t about to say _that_ to Maguire.

When she heard that Mr. Holmes had cried - two things flared up in her chest.

One, a moment of sheer _Uh oh_. She was sure she felt it flash across her face; felt her eyes widen a fraction, felt her lips part for the briefest of moments before she closed down.

_Time to recalculate._

Two, a deep well of defensive anger that _Maguire_ had seen Mr. Holmes so vulnerable.

_That is mine. He is mine. He has been mine long before you came on the scene, and when you are reassigned, I will be here. Do not touch him, do not try to become more to him than a driver._

_He is mine._

“And here you are,” she said coolly, “berating me, rather than taking care of Mr. Holmes. How caring of you.”

She leaned forward, pushing into Maguire’s space without a care. The world was hers, after all, even the parts of it other people occupied. “In a move that comes as no surprise to me, Maguire,” _you idiot_ , “you have completely misconstrued the situation at hand. Go away.”

 

*

 

As Anthea moved, so did Jinx.

Military training - MI6 training - years of them, decades, and it turned out they were all for this moment. They came together as cleanly as if they'd choreographed it, not a flicker of fault in the motion. As Anthea stepped in, Jinx's hands rose. They curled in the front of Anthea's blouse; it brought their faces to within an inch of each other.

Jinx drank the threat down like it was wine.

She laughed, and it was not her laugh.

"Not my place to take care of him," she said. "I'm just his driver, princess. Taking care of him was _your_ place. You used it to gut him and break him, all so you could have some fun."

She searched Anthea's gaze.

"You'll find someone," she breathed. "Some day. Somebody who means something. Somebody who's not like the others. It's like death, darlin'. It comes for us all."

Jinx's eyes flared.

"And when it comes for you," she breathed, "and there's somebody special, I hope they're taken off you. I hope it _hurts._ I hope you cry because of how much it hurts. And I hope that day you remember Mr Holmes, and everything he did for you."

She let go of Anthea's blouse, and stepped away from her door.

"Have you realised yet why I wouldn't fuck you?" she asked, backing down the path. She didn't take her eyes from Anthea's face.

 

*

 

_Me, find someone like that?_

_Unlikely, Maguire._

_People do not love people who can't love them back._

Anthea was absolutely not going to tell her that.

She also wasn't about to defend herself from someone who wouldn't believe her. Maguire would only see what she wanted to see, would only hear what she wanted to hear.

She had learned long ago that there was no point in trying to change people’s impressions of her. It was easier to go with the impression, twist it to her advantage.

_This is why you wouldn't fuck me? All this?_

_Funny, since this all started AFTER you decided to lie to get away from me._

_And then you decided to tell Lestrade I was pressuring you into sex._

_You were flirting back, I know you were._

_You can go to Hell._

Her face showed nothing but cool disdain. “Don't flatter yourself, Maguire. You don't intrigue me that much.”

_The loss of you does not even register. You are unimportant._

 

*

 

Jinx hooked her thumbs into her belt, still walking away.

"That's why I've got a glove-box full of your underwear, is it?" she said. She didn't bother to keep her voice down. "We didn't fuck because I like to be friends after. Wasn't sure you're capable of it, princess."

She turned away.

"Thanks for proving me right. See you at work tomorrow."

 

*

 

Anthea allowed her snarl to pass over her face for a brief second. _You know nothing, you little bitch._

_You know nothing about me._

Her jaw worked for a brief moment before she turned around and went back into her flat. She shut the door quietly behind herself; a slam would only satisfy Maguire, show her she had gotten under Anthea’s skin.

She hadn't.

Anthea ran a very hot bath and soaked in it, thinking about her next move. Later, she decided, she would be ruminating on Maguire’s sudden change.

For now, the fury at her negated any sort of productive thought.

 


	28. Considerate

Mr Holmes was ill.

Mrs Collins informed them all the next morning as they appeared for breakfast. He'd come down with a temperature and a severe headache in the night, and wanted to be left to sleep. Nobody was to disturb him unless absolutely necessary. Anthea was requested to give his professional apologies to those people he'd been scheduled to meet today; Jinx and Greg were off-duty, and could do as they wished.

Jinx, with a calm glance at both of them in turn, excused herself to the garage to get on with her bike.

That evening, Mrs Collins took Mr Holmes his beef casserole. She was in his room for about five minutes, and emerged with the news that he had no appetite and looked rather dreadful. She suspected the flu. He would take tomorrow off work as well, and asked that they all stay away from his room. He didn't want them to catch anything. 

It was suggested that Greg use another bathroom for a while. If he wanted to switch rooms to the north wing, Mr Holmes said that would also be fine.

Strangely, Mrs Collins seemed to be an exception to the no contact rule. She took Mycroft painkillers, cups of tea and a malted drink in the evening, as well as books from the library. She went in with his breakfast the next morning, and stayed in the room for a while cleaning. She said he wasn't eating much, but she still managed to get three meals a day into the man. Alice - thoroughly undeterred by the threat of flu - now seemed to be have taken up residence in Mycroft's room. She came out briefly for a stroll in the morning and evening, then disappeared back in with her papa. If the door was shut, she slept outside until he let her in.

By Wednesday, Mrs Collins reported that Mr Holmes was looking 'a little better' - but still didn't want to risk anybody's health. 

"He thinks he might be back on his feet tomorrow," she told them all as she served up dinner, carefully plating up a portion of meatballs for Mycroft as well. "He's going to see if he sleeps any better tonight."

Jinx Maguire turned the page in her newspaper with an audible crinkle, folded it back on itself and reached for the pen behind her ear. She cast her eye over the crossword, ignoring her food. After filling in a couple of clues, she addressed the kitchen at large.

"Seven down," she read out, with interest.  _ "'False friend'. _ T-something-A-I-something-something-R." 

She chewed at the end of her pen, her brow furrowed. 

"Man, I'm never any good at these things."

 

*

 

“Traitor,” Greg supplied helpfully. “Kind of a weird hint for it, though.” 

He hadn’t been sleeping well, worried for Mycroft’s health, but he was doing as well as he could be. Bless Mrs. Collins, since it was completely clear that the man of the house did not want either Greg or Anthea around.

While Greg could understand Mycroft not wanting  _ him _ around, that second one was strange: usually Anthea never left his side. And she didn’t seem worried about catching ‘flu.

Kind of looked like she already had, frankly. She was paler than usual and had smudges under her eyes that even her expertly-applied makeup couldn’t completely conceal. He had tried asking her about it.

It was probably a good sign that she had waved him off with a small smile rather than hand his bollocks to him on a plate, but it was concerning in its own way. Anthea being friendly was weird in and of itself.

He found himself wondering if she did actually know he was gay.

He hoped she did, or things were going to get really awkward, really quickly.

 

*

 

Anthea, for her part, didn’t respond at all to the (very pointed) comment from Maguire.

At least, not verbally.

Her hand tightened briefly on her fork before she set it down. She put her plate aside, hardly touched, and smile slightly at Mrs. Collins. “I beg your forgiveness, Mrs. Collins, but I must get back to work now. You know Mr. Holmes; he hates to see work pile up.”

“Oh, but dear, you’ve hardly touched your food!” the housekeeper protested, gesturing at her plate.

She briefly considered lying, and decided against it. “I have unfortunately lost my appetite, which is no reflection on this scrumptious meal.” She ducked her head a little. “If you would be so kind as to fridge it for me, I promise I will have some later. For now, duty calls.”

 

*

 

It took another two promises for Mrs Collins to be placated; she finally agreed to let Anthea go. She wrapped Anthea's food carefully in clingfilm (after adding another half-portion to the plate) and put it away in the fridge with a sigh.

"That poor girl works too hard," she remarked. "I wouldn't be surprised if she's got flu from the same place as Mr Holmes... the pair of them work themselves to threads. It's not right."

Jinx said nothing, still filling in her crossword with her eyes down. 

 

* * *

 

Thursday.

Three days to grieve; three days to think. Mycroft had spent most of it reading and sleeping, leaving the house at night to walk through the woods. Once, there was a time he'd never have dared to do such a thing. In those first few weeks, Lestrade would have lost his mind to discover that Mycroft was out alone at night, walking the unmarked path for miles through the forest. 

But he suspected Lestrade's care and concern would not be so all-encompassing now. Mycroft was a professional consideration, and no more. 

There was a strange, painful freedom in it.

_ Alone, if I wish. The forest, if I wish.  _ A few weeks of foolish hope, a few wounds he would grieve for some time, but they'd come right back to the start somehow - Mycroft's solitude was his security, and loneliness felt as warm and close as safety. 

As he walked each night, breathing the night air and listening to the quiet tread of his own footsteps, he walked himself through the worst of the grief. He let the passing miles bring him nearer to resolution.

They could start again. Lessons had been learned; mistakes had been made. Three days, and it would all be reset. He would work with Anthea; he would work with Lestrade. He would extend his professional appreciation to both, treat them well as an employer, and in the evenings he would take himself to those parts of his home that were still his - his library, his bedroom - there to read, there to rest, and to forget.

What his staff did together did not matter. 

He was not a part of their world. 

They were neither his family nor his friends, and they were not here to provide him with company. They weren't here to make him feel loved. For love, he had his books and he had Alice. Many people in this world had far less.

He would be alright.

On Thursday morning, Mycroft quietly left his bed as soon as he realised he was awake. He didn't want to lie in the silence and think. Today would be important - there was a new normality to establish. If he could make this first day work, the rest would fall into place. Habits would form; peace would come back.

In the bathroom, Mycroft discovered he looked exactly like a man who'd spent three days fighting the flu. The reddened eyes, pale complexion and clear lack of sleep were fairly helpful, in that regard. He looked as if he'd aged five years. He washed, made himself presentable if not groomed, returned to his bedroom and chose clothing that felt calm to him - clothing that would see him through the day. 

As he made his way downstairs for breakfast, feeling and looking horrifically fragile, Alice followed him like a small ghost. For three days now, she'd worried about him. He'd have to make sure she didn't try following him to work - she'd snuck into the car on two previous occasions; on the most recent, they'd been halfway to London before she leapt from the footwell onto his knee. 

Upon reaching the kitchen, Alice was good enough to announce him to the room's only occupant.

Mycroft braced, telling himself it would be fine.

 

*

 

Anthea’s head jerked up from where she had been staring at a poorly written-report, struggling to parse it through a monster of a headache. She had taken to wearing her reading glasses more often than not; she had barely gone more than twenty minutes without looking at some document or screen since Mr. Holmes had taken ‘ill’.

‘Ill’. From a man who had successfully bargained with Russia with a temperature of 39.5°. Who had found a way to hold a meeting in fifteen minute chunks so he could vomit in between.

‘Ill’.

Right.

He was avoiding them all. That he was avoiding  _ her _ hurt deeply, but she wasn’t about to show it.

“Mr. Holmes,” she greeted, rising smoothly. Maybe not as smoothly as usual, but she was running on very little sleep and had been juggling all of Mr. Holmes’ duties and her own for nearly four days now. She was due a little lack of grace.

“I hadn’t realized you’d be awake, sir. I’ll have your breakfast ready very shortly.”

She turned away and began the preparations, well aware of how she looked: disheveled and tired, surrounded by paperwork she had been struggling with for hours. A cup of coffee, her laptop, and her mobile sat on the table as well, and even as she pulled the ingredients out she heard her mobile ping again.

_ Goddammit. I can’t even get five minutes of peace to prepare breakfast. _

Sighing just a little, Anthea pushed her hair out of her face, moved her glasses back up her nose, and went back to the table. She typed a rapid-fire reply and returned to her employer’s breakfast, this time bringing the phone with her. 

Toast, fruit, a small amount of cottage cheese, all prepared between shooting off emails and text messages. She put the kettle on as well. He looked - awful.

Which made her feel awful, of course, but that just meant that she needed to recalculate. Clearly he thought she and Lestrade were sleeping together. How to disabuse him of that notion…

Well, Lestrade was already giving her funny glances when she treated him more as a friend than a colleague. Perhaps she could amp that up and dial back the sexual flirtation. Hopefully it would unsettle him enough to say something about it.

Taking another partner wouldn’t work; Mr. Holmes would merely hate her for betraying Lestrade’s trust. 

Not that she had ever juggled multiple partners without everyone being aware of the situation, nor would she ever. She demanded honesty from her partners, and gave it in turn. 

That didn’t matter. All that mattered was that everyone  _ thought _ she was capable of sleeping around behind a partner’s back, and with the situation as it was, that would be the first thought on everyone’s mind. Better not to risk it.

Lost in thought as she was, exhausted as she was, she was a little more careless than usual with the knife as she opened an avocado.

The blade bit deeply into the meat of her left hand. Kudos to Lestrade: his knives were sharp, and all she felt was a sting until she looked down and saw the damage she had done to herself. When the pain hit her, she hissed a little under her breath and dropped the fruit, taking a dishcloth calmly and pressing it into her hand.

_ Bloody well figures. _

 

*

 

There came the quiet scrape of chair legs across the kitchen tiles, the clunk of a cupboard door, and the soft crack of the first aid kit’s clasps being opened. Mycroft appeared at Anthea's side without a word; he brooked no protest as he gently reached for her hand. 

He examined the wound quietly, the tired lines in his face deepening.  _ Clean. Easily done. _ She would be alright. He switched on the tap to rinse it, then brought her to a chair and made her sit. Without looking into her face, he knelt on his knees upon the tiles, took a clean tea towel and pressed it against the wound to staunch the blood flow. 

As he touched her, his hands perceptibly shook - but he did not let go. 

After a silent minute, the flow had stopped enough to cover the wound. Mycroft took a sterile dressing from the kit, unwrapped it, then placed it with the greatest care across the cut. His every motion had the precision and caution of something that mattered. He smoothed the edges gently with his thumb, and checked it. 

He then returned her hand to her - in his fingers, an apologetic tremor as he laid it down upon her knee. 

"There." He spoke calmly, his words quiet, as if he didn’t wish to trouble her with them. Through his head ran the same words that had run for five minutes without change.  _ I am very glad for you. I cannot blame you. I have no right. _ "No harm done."

He rose up from his knees, tired and old; gently he moved away from her. 

"Sit a while," he said. "There’s no need for you to prepare my food... I ask quite enough of you already, and your time in the mornings should be your own. I’ll attend to it in future."

He picked up the tray. 

"Thank you," he murmured.  _ I am very glad for you. I cannot blame you. I have no right. _ "You are kind. Tell any other inquiries that I’m returning to work today - I’ll get back to them shortly."

He made his way towards the door.

 

*

 

Anthea’s chest tightened, but it didn’t show on her face. Nearly since the beginning, she had been bringing him his breakfast. It was a way to ensure he ate, a quiet ritual of theirs. It had been harder than Lestrade had known to let him take it over.

And now Mr. Holmes was taking it from her.

_ Don’t push me away. Don’t you dare. We are all we have had. _

_ I won’t let you make yourself unhappy. _

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

She watched him go and cradled her injured hand to her chest. She let her head bow for a brief moment.

_ I will fix this. _

_ You are in love with Lestrade, and he will make you happy. You just have to see it. _

_ I’ll make you see it. _

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Anthea collected herself and sat back down at the table. Her mobile had gone off repeatedly and there was work to be done. She would make Mr. Holmes’ return to work as smooth as possible.

She was, after all, a stellar assistant. In that at least, she was above reproach.

 

*

 

As he ascended the staircase, Mycroft calmed his fractious heartbeat with the sort of nonsense his nanny had soothed him with as a child.  _ It's quite alright... this will pass. Stay quiet, and it will quietly pass.  _ He'd hoped to last at least an hour before needing to take himself away and breathe, but he could hardly expect anxiety to run to a schedule.  _ No shame to seek privacy when I need it. Breakfast alone, and I will settle. This day will pass. _

When they got to London, and work began, it would be easier to cope. He could step into his profession like armour and let it hold him up. It would help.

Until that point, he'd just have to insulate himself from any more incidents.

At the top of the stairs, he turned into the south wing and headed for his bedroom, rather wishing it didn't now feel like a shelter.  _ For heaven's sake, this is my home. And I hardly dare walk around it. _

_ No. No, none of that.  _

_ Enough punishment, now. Unhelpful.  _

Halfway along the corridor, there came a strange click.

Far too late did Mycroft realise it was the bathroom door. 

Before he could even draw a fortifying breath, it opened wide - emitting into the corridor a gasp of steam, and a damp and nearly naked Greg Lestrade. The towel around his hips didn't impart so much as a scrap of modesty.

Mycroft froze on the spot.

_ Oh. _

_ Oh, for... _

 

*

 

The song Greg had been humming to himself caught in his throat when he looked up and caught sight of his employer, frozen in the corridor.

_ Thank God. You’re up and about _ .

That was Greg’s first thought. His second was:  _ why the fuck didn’t I grab any pants? _

Taking a deep breath, he decided to do what he did with the girls: pretend everything was perfectly normal.

Normal normal normal.

He grinned. “Morning, Mr. Holmes. Glad to see you up and about. What a nasty ‘flu, huh? I was just on my way to get dressed. Good timing, I guess. You take your time with that breakfast, though. No need to rush.”

He was very, very aware of every single drop of water making its way down his body.

_ Oh God. Say something. Or don’t. Ignore me and continue on. Don’t make me push past you to get to my room. _

Even drawn and haggard, Mycroft had a fragile beauty to him.

And the towel around Greg’s hips was hardly hiding anything as it was.

 

*

 

_ In an excellent mood. _

Mycroft's heart ached with it. He'd not seen that grin in weeks; it hurt to realise what had prompted the sudden happiness.

_ So the man should be,  _ he told himself.  _ I am very glad for him. Good people should be happy. My jealousy demeans me; I have no right to it. _

Drawing a breath, Mycroft let the words settle into place across the raw edges of his distress, blanketing it in calm. He kept his eyes on Lestrade's face. He didn't want to look at those shoulders; he didn't want to imagine Anthea's hands holding onto them.

Then, the thought of her kissing him hurt as well. His perfect face; his beautiful eyes closing.

_ God almighty, forget it. Forget it for heaven's sake. You couldn't have had him anyway. Don't resent the poor woman some happiness in life, just because you are lonely. _

"Good morning, Lestrade."  _ Good. More of that.  _ "Yes, I'm - glad to be recovered. I only hope not to pass it onto the rest of you."  _ Good. Yes. Normal.  _ "I imagine we'll be going at the ordinary time, if that suits."

He stepped away from Greg's door, leaving easy room for them to pass one another.  _ Excellent. Considerate employer. Yes. All very good. _

 

*

 

_ Can’t even look at me. _

Greg supposed he couldn’t really blame the man. While he knew he cut quite a good figure clothed, when he was like this…

Well. It was pretty obvious he was damaged goods. There wasn’t a limb that didn’t have some sort of scar or other; even his eyebrow had a small one.

He knew he wasn’t much to look at like this. It just hurt to be reminded.

He nodded a little, smiling easily. “Fine by me. I’ll be ready,” he assured Mycroft.

_ Right. Employer-employee. Just his bodyguard. It’s fine. Get in your room. Back to work. Get dressed. Everything’s fine. _

Greg stepped around his employer and entered his own room, closing the door behind himself with a quiet click.

He leaned against it for the briefest of moments, working on burying down the hurt and whispers of the past. 

_ ‘Jesus, what the hell happened to you?’ _

_ ‘Where did those come from?’ _

_ ‘Could you cover up a bit? Those make me uncomfortable.’ _

_ ‘Fuck, you’re hard to look at like that.’ _

_ ‘Can we keep the lights off?’ _

He inhaled hard and pushed himself away from the door, toweling off mechanically.  _ It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s good. It’s fine. _ Getting dressed helped quiet his mind somewhat. 

He was fine.

It was all fine.

 

*

 

_ There. _

_ Done. _

First interactions had been navigated; the worst was over. It was just a case of continuation now. Lestrade was clearly in good spirits, and wouldn't notice a thing. Anthea was suffering with the work he'd cruelly delegated to her, and the guilt for that could keep him warm tonight. Both had no reason to suspect he wasn't okay.

Mycroft laid his breakfast tray quietly on the desk in his bedroom. He sat down with it, and glanced at himself in the mirror. 

Tired, pale and definitely unhappy - but still in one piece. 

He drew a long breath. The day would pass, and the evening would come before he knew it. 

Quietly he reached for his coffee, suppressing from his head that Anthea had made it for him - and that she wouldn't do so again. He would have to take back these small things, these little needs that he'd placed in the hands of others. Weakness and age had softened him; they'd coaxed him to lean far more heavily on people than was fair or right or wise. This opportunity to repair that imbalance should be faced now with gratitude.

It was true what his father had tried to impart to him: one weakness was enough, and care was by far the most dangerous.

Breathing the scent of the coffee, Mycroft closed his eyes. He took a first quiet sip.

She'd always made it perfectly.

_ So it goes,  _ he whispered to himself, and drank until his hands had stopped shaking.

 


	29. Deep Breath

The day passed mostly in professional silence amongst them all. Even Anthea and Mycroft didn’t talk much, aside from Anthea excusing herself to change her bandage every so often.

Things were still rather stilted between the three of them, at least within the halls of Mycroft’s office. Greg found his mind wandering more often than not, and was relieved when the day came to a slightly earlier end than usual.

This was Anthea’s doing, naturally. Rather than try to chivvy Mycroft home with anything about his illness, she had quietly and apologetically requested that they end an hour earlier than usual: her bandage had bled through yet again and it was beginning to get hard to type.

She negated Mycroft’s concern and assured him that she would go see a doctor, but that she wanted to make sure that he was safely on the estate, first. Some negotiation later, and they all were in the car on the ride home.

Greg had elected to sit next to Jinx up front, rather than have all three of them in the backseat. Since the other option was to put Anthea up front, the arrangement was the only logical choice. The ride back home was quiet and tense, and he prayed that things would find their way back to a balance sooner rather than later.

 

*

 

Mycroft disappeared up the stairs and vanished into the library as soon as they arrived back at the house. Anthea tugged Greg into the kitchen and sat at the table.

“Could you give me a hand?” she asked, holding up her own. The bandage had nearly soaked through again. “I’m afraid I can’t plaster it by myself.”

“Oh, uh, sure,” he said, looking around for the first aid kit. “What did you even do to yourself, anyway?”

“Oh, I slipped cutting an avocado this morning,” she said breezily. “Silly of me, really.”

“Mm.” He peeked in the cupboards and looked over his shoulder. “Mrs. Collins? Have you seen the first aid kit?”

 

*

 

Mrs Collins looked round from the risotto she was tending for dinner. She nearly dropped the spoon in horror.

"You poor lamb!" she cried. "Oh lord, let me see - it was out on the kitchen table earlier... where did I put it? I think it might be in the pantry, dear... yes! Yes, to remind me to order more plasters when I do the grocery shop tomorrow morning."

The second Greg stepped into the pantry - before he'd even had time to so much as blink - she called,

"Have you found it, Greg? Do you need a hand to come and look?"

The enormous green box was sitting very prominently on top of the tinned food, so obvious it might as well have had fairy lights wrapped around it. 

 

*

 

Greg smothered a smile. “No, Mrs. Collins, I’ve found it,” he called, taking it down from the shelf and stepping out of the pantry.

He set it on the table and opened it up, digging through for alcohol wipes, antibiotic ointment, and plasters. 

Anthea rested her hand on the table and began picking at the old bandage, wincing slightly as she did so.

“Here, let me,” he said, setting the supplies aside. “Deep breath.”

She inhaled and nodded, bracing herself.

He looked at her. “Ready? One, two -” He ripped the plaster off in one smooth movement.

She released the breath in a harsh exhale, wincing and clearly fighting the desire to cradle her hand against her chest.

He took the hand gently and began cleaning it with the alcohol wipes. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I know it stings.”

“Quite alright,” she said softly, even as her fingers twitched with pain.

Greg gave a low whistle. “Jeez, Anthea, this is pretty deep. You might actually need to see a doctor for this,” he said, putting the antibiotic cream on it. “Especially with where it is.” He traced his finger along side of it. “With everything you do, it hasn’t had a chance to scab properly, has it?”

She shook her head.

“Well, I’ll put another plaster on it, but if it’s not better tomorrow morning, you’ll see a doctor. Right?” he asked, looking up at her as he prepared it to be bandaged.

She gave him a small smile. “Right.”

“Right.” He smoothed it over her palm and checked it, hands gentle. “There you are. All set.”

She smiled at him again. “Thank you, Lestrade.” She rose, putting a hand on his shoulder as she did so. It was a brief touch, and held little, if any, of the sexual tension that had so often been present in her touches before.

He watched her sweep out of the kitchen with a faint smile.

 

*

 

He wasn't the only one who watched her go.

Mrs Collins, tapping the wooden spoon on the side of the pan, then turned around to give him a fond glance. 

It was the sort of look that could often be found gracing an older lady's face - eyebrows raised, smile wide and knowing, a little twinkle in her eye that said she knew the secret too.

 

*

 

Greg looked round, then did a double take. “What’s that look for?” he asked, arching a brow.

He got a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach.

_ Oh no. _

“Wait, no. No, no no,” he said, holding his hands up. “No, it’s not - don’t look at me like that!”

 

*

 

Mrs Collins dropped him a wink.

"Don't you worry, dear," she said, turning back to her pan with a smile somehow twice as wide as before. It said:  _ oooh, I knew it.  _ "I won't say a word."

She then proceeded to say some more words.

"About time that nice young lady found a nice young man to treat her well... poor thing. Working every hour that God sends." She reached for the cream, adding a generous swirl. "There'll be a gazebo in the grounds before long. Mr Holmes will be delighted."

 

*

 

While Greg was certain that at some point Anthea would meet someone who would treat her well (no guarantee on it being a young man), he was more certain that it would not be him.

“Mrs. Collins, that may be on the agenda for Anthea, but it will not be me joining her in the gazebo,” he said, rubbing his face. “And frankly, I doubt it’s on the agenda at all. She’s quite happy as she is: single.”

_ I’m gay and very much not dating Anthea, thanks. She terrifies me at the best of times. _

 

*

 

Mrs Collins gave a little chuckle. She turned to Greg, tapping the side of her nose with a finger. 

"Say no more, dear," she soothed. "My lips are sealed."

Happily she returned to her pan, picked up her spoon and gave a wistful sigh, quite clearly imagining what sort of hat she was going to wear.

 

*

 

_ Goddammit. _

Greg groaned a little and put his face in his hands. She was doing the Old Lady Thing: selective deafness and knowing winks, topped up with a healthy dose of matchmaking. He doubted even announcing his sexuality would dissuade her at this point.

He shook his head, packed up the first aid kit, and returned it to its place on top of the tinned food, then left the kitchen rubbing his face.  _ Great. Is that what everyone’s thinking? That I’m sleeping with her? _

_ Shit, does SHE think I want to sleep with her?? _

Anthea was absolutely stunning, no doubt about that. Greg was as gay as they came, but he could appreciate the fact that she was very well proportioned and could make a bin bag look like haute couture.

He just had absolutely no desire whatsoever to court her or sleep with her.

He was so lost in thought that he bumped into Jinx - quite literally.

“Oh - shite, I’m sorry -” He blinked and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Do you think I slept with Anthea?” he demanded.

 

*

 

Jinx - on her way to the downstairs loo with a magazine under her arm - jumped as he grabbed her, staring at him with a wild-eyed concern.

It turned into an eye-roll that was almost painful to witness.

She shoved him off her shoulders, annoyed.

"Do what you want, Lestrade," she muttered. "Surprised she didn't eat you straight after."

 

*

 

“For the love of - I am gay!” Greg exploded, throwing his hands in the air. “I didn’t sleep with her! I don’t want to sleep with her! I have never had any intention of sleeping with her!”

_ Fuck! _

Which meant -

Fuck. Maybe that explained Mycroft’s reaction.

Christ. What to do?

How to break it to Anthea?

Fuck.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, pushing past her and heading for the stairs. He couldn’t tell Anthea himself, not without risking hurting her feelings, but maybe Mycroft could tell her.

Which had the added bonus of dropping that bomb on the man at the same time.

“Oughta start wearing those rainbow socks the girls bought for me,” he muttered, knocking on the library door.

 

*

 

The very moment that they'd driven through the gates, Mycroft's strength and energy had folded around him like wet tissue. He'd planned to work this evening. His three days of soul-searching had cost him dearly, and those hours of work had to be retrieved from somewhere. 

In the end, he'd gotten upstairs, lowered the lamps to a comforting half-glow, loosened his tie and opened his laptop, then promptly fallen asleep. 

He awoke with a blink at the knock, startled to find himself slumped in an armchair by the fire. His laptop was aglow on the table beside him; his eyes were burning.

_ God almighty... what time is it?  _

He glanced wildly at the clock. 

_ Not even seven.  _

Groggy, Mycroft sat himself up with a quiet intake of breath.  _ I must sleep tonight. I must sleep properly, or my work will suffer.  _ Rubbing beneath his eyes, he called, "It's open."

_ Anthea with the Berlin papers,  _ he thought.  _ Mrs Collins with food, or fuss. Or both. _

 

*

 

Greg entered, eyes sweeping the room until they lit on Mycroft. He felt only a little bad about waking him.

He strode over and raked a hand nervously through his hair. “Sir, I really gotta talk to you.” He couldn’t conceal the edge of panic in his voice.

 

*

 

_ Sweet Christ, what now? _

But then at this stage, what else could there possibly be? 

Mycroft glanced at the closed doors of the library, ensuring there was privacy for whatever fresh hell was about to unfold. They were alone. The blurred shift from sleep to consciousness had dulled his mind enough to prevent him from speculating at any speed. He would just have to hear this.

He gestured gently to the chair opposite him, watching Greg with concern.

"It's alright," he said, calm, even as his pulse picked up behind his mask. "Sit down and talk to me."

 

*

 

Greg blew out a breath and sat down heavily, head in his hands. He took a few moments to organize his thoughts, and decided to just go for it.

He folded his arms on his knees and looked up, face lined with worry.

“Do  _ you _ think I slept with Anthea?”

_ Please say no. _

_ Please let someone in this fucking house recognize that I am gay. _

 

*

 

_ Oh. _

_ Oh, god. _

_ Christ, what has been said? _

Mycroft immediately ceased to breathe. He searched Greg's face, trying to work out how he could even begin to respond. What would express the required lack of condemnation without somehow suggesting approval?

_ Oh, god. _

_ I'm so tired. _

He gazed at Greg, too weak to keep the mask in place. Distress flooded through, and Mycroft visibly pushed it away - then guilt came in its wake, and he pushed that aside too. 

At last, he realised he would have to speak - or else sit here all night, staring at the man and feeling his wretched heart rip itself open all over again.

"Lestrade, if - the household continues to function - I do not mind if - "

_ Oh god, don't make me give you my blessing. I can't do it.  _

 

*

 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Greg buried his face in his hands, caring not a whit that he had just sworn in front of his boss. “I didn’t sleep with her!”

He looked up, almost angry. “For the love of - I am  _ gay! _ I like  _ men! _ ” He pushed a hand through his hair, lips thin. 

“I am not interested in her, I never have been, and I never will be. She is a lovely woman, and  _ I am gay. _ ”

He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, and he was breathing hard, overcome with emotion.

_ For fuck’s sake. How many more times will I have to come out? _

_ What the fuck do I have to do to show that I’m not fucking straight? _

 

*

 

_ No. _

_ No, it... _

_ No, it can't be. _

Mycroft had misheard. 

By 'gay', Lestrade meant...

_... that he likes men.  _

_ Oh, god.  _

_ Oh god, it can't possibly be true.  _ Shock had never fallen so heavily across Mycroft Holmes's face. His mouth opened; he looked at Greg as if the world had ended in a moment, rebuilt itself and burned again around him into ash.  _ He's - gay. _

Mycroft's mouth spoke for him. 

"You - M-Maguire took you to - "  _ Oh Christ! Stop! Stop, for the love of everything good in this world!  _ "Y-You are - "

_ Gay. _

"I had no idea," he breathed, staring. The past few months flashed before his eyes as if he were about to die. The restaurant - that drunken night. The moment he'd almost pulled Lestrade into his bedroom, and the moment it seemed that Lestrade had almost come with him. Their closeness. The touching. Greg carrying Mycroft up the stairs in his arms, four gentle kisses, and then an emptiness that had haunted Mycroft ever since. He hadn't slept. He hadn't rested.

_ Holy god. _

_ You're gay. _

Heat rushed across Mycroft's face. He loosened the grip on the arms of his chair, reminding himself that breathing was required for life.

"S-She seems - fond of you," he managed, his throat tight. "I - assumed..."

 

*

 

“God fucking dammit,” Greg breathed, dropping his face into his hands.

“Fuck. God dammit.” 

He took a huge breath and tried to wrangle his temper and emotions. His jaw worked for a moment. 

Another inhale. “Maguire,” he said calmly, “took me to Anthea’s house because Anthea asked me over to discuss a sensitive matter. It was very private and very personal, and I’m very glad she shared it with me. It was not  _ sex _ .”

Inhale, exhale. Calm. Cool. Collected. He was fine. This is fine.

“Anthea is an absolutely gorgeous woman. She’s stunning. Turns every head in the room. But I  _ am not attracted to her _ . And yes, I am gay. Very gay. Have been forever.”

His hands tightened on the arms of the chair. “Don’t feel bad that you didn’t know. Apparently everybody and their mother thinks she and I are sleeping together. We’re not. I am gay.”

One final exhale. “Can you tell her, please? I don’t - Jesus. No one seems to fucking  _ believe _ me that I’m gay, and I don’t want her to think that I’m making it up because I don’t find her attractive or whatever. I’m just - worried that she’s interested me, and I’m  _ not _ interested in her.”

 

*

 

Mycroft almost wanted to cry. 

_ You're gay. You've been gay since the beginning. You were gay the day we met. You were gay the day I wanted you in my bedroom. You were gay the day you carried me. _

His heart wasn't beating. Instead it seemed to clench wildly each time he tried to breathe, sending blood in a vague rush to his head - where it caught in his cheeks, blazing with a heat that almost hurt.

_ God almighty, are you - did you -  _

_ Did you ever - _

_ For me? _

Mycroft gripped the arms of the chair. 

_ Think. Stop - think. He's distressed. Now is not the time. Your jealous panicking has caused enough chaos. He is reliant on you for his position, his home. His dignity. _

Swallowing, drawing a long breath, Mycroft let calm flood through his veins for the first time in days.

"Of course I'll speak to her," he said. "I promise you this shall be dealt with sensitively. I'll find out if she's aware... if not, I'll ensure that she is."

_ God help me... _

"Greg, I'm - sorry." 

Mycroft's heart heaved into his throat. 

"I assumed things I should not," he said, his voice strained. "As a - g-gay man myself - " 

_ Oh, God.  _

_ I haven't said that aloud in a decade. _

" - of  _ all _ people, I should not have - ... and I'm sorry. Sincerely."

 

*

 

“Apology accepted,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his face. “And - thank you. For being willing to tell her. I do  _ like _ her, she’s clever and funny, but she scares the ever-loving out of me and I’m gay.”

He felt the need to repeat it, as if it would make it more real.  _ Thank Christ someone finally believes me. _

The announcement that his employer was gay came as absolutely no surprise to Greg, nor was it particularly surprising that said employer had not picked up on his employee’s gayness. 

_ What was it Mel called it? ‘Gaydar’? _

_ Mycroft sure as shit doesn’t have it, whatever it’s called. _

He blinked as another piece of information raised its hand for attention.

‘Greg’.

_ You called me Greg. _

He hadn’t been ‘Greg’ in ages.

It brought a smile to his face; a true, warm smile. The warmth the smile brought washed away the last of the panic and the distress, and he settled more easily into his chair.

_ I’m gay. _

_ You’re gay. _

_ I was Lestrade. And you fell apart when I went to see Anthea. _ The memory of Mycroft crying alone on the bench swept over him, causing his heart to clench.

_ And now I’m Greg. And you know I’m gay. _

_ You’re blushing. _

_ Christ. Are you - _

_ Do you - _

_ You fell apart. When you thought I had gone somewhere else. _

 

*

 

It was there in Mycroft's face - all of it. 

He looked at Greg as if he'd heard every unspoken word, and wasn't afraid. Quiet truth settled over his features. He held Greg's eyes, his gaze at last unguarded, and as the silence drew close around them Mycroft let go of a breath he'd been holding for weeks.

He looked down, a half-smile finally lifting the corner of his mouth.

"It will be alright," he said, gently. From the ease in his eyes, he believed it to the bone. "Might I ask you to do something for me in return?"

 

*

 

_When you say that, I can believe it._ _It will be alright._

“Sure,” Greg said automatically.

_ Anything. _

_ For you, anything. Whatever you want. _

“What is it?” he asked, tilting his head curiously, a faint smile on his mouth.

 

*

 

Mycroft's gaze glittered.

"Please," he murmured, "for the sake of all our sanity... indicate to Maguire that you have no designs upon Anthea. Before she embarks upon another vengeful spree with a garden hose."

 

*

 

Greg laughed a little, shaking his head. “No worries there, sir. I made it very clear that I am gay, did not sleep with Anthea, and have absolutely no designs upon her.”

He rolled his eyes a little. “Maybe now they’ll finally have the really furious sex that’s been building between them for ages.”

He threw Mycroft a cheeky grin. “Not that you heard that from me.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's mouth curled. The brightness that flared in his gaze was only there for a second, before settling into a warmth that hadn't touched his eyes for some time.

He crossed one leg over the other, and brushed a hand back quietly through his dishevelled hair.

"Perhaps," he said, with unconcealable hope. "The release of tension would..."

He smiled and frowned at once, pressing two fingers between his eyes.

"What am I saying?" he murmured. "This is... indiscreet of me. Let us not coax each other into gossip. What people do in this house behind closed doors is no business of anyone else."

Indiscretion felt so good, though - hearing the man tease and confide and joke, say things that he shouldn't, slip through Mycroft's armour as easily as if it weren't there.

_ God help me, you're gay... _

Those protective touches. A hospital car park in the rain, wrapping the man in his arms. 

Breathing the thought away, Mycroft eased himself back towards sense.

"Our absence will be noted at dinner," he remarked, glancing at the library clock.

 

*

 

“Considering the fact that what I wasn’t doing with Anthea behind closed doors was everyone’s business the past couple of months,” Greg said wryly, “I think I’m owed a gossip or two.”

He didn’t bother to look at the clock. “I doubt they’ll miss us,” he said. “Mrs. Collins is too busy planning my wedding to Anthea to notice.”

He grinned impishly. “I bet Jinx will wear a tux when she and Anthea get married. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything but trousers; I can’t imagine her in a wedding dress.”

 

*

 

Mycroft covered his face with his hands, trying to repress his amusement. He rubbed at his eyes, then at the notion of a wedding he might have had to attend, a groan escaped him before he could stop it. He winced, despairing at himself, but it was too late to change it now. He let it be; a weary half-laugh came in its wake.  _ I am a mess.  _

_ God alive, mourning the pair of them... imagining them taking off into the sunset together... _

_ When did I become a green-eyed tyrant? _

He knew the answer. 

He didn't even need to look at Greg to be certain. 

_ The day I met you. The day I loved you, wanted you. The day I realised there's never been someone so close to me. _

Taking a breath, Mycroft lifted his head from his hands.

"You are a rascal," he told his bodyguard, his smile full of surrender at last. Joy was cascading through his heart. He wanted to stand up, stretch and laugh.  _ Wrong. I was completely wrong... magnificently, sublimely, wonderfully wrong.  _ "Maguire and Anthea's - friction, or lack thereof, is between the two of them and nobody else. Whatever manner of friction they choose to indulge in."

 

*

 

Greg sniggered. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

 


	30. Treasure

Once her hand had been seen to, Anthea had commandeered the patio to continue working. It was a warm summer evening, and she planned to take full advantage of it. There was a large table out there for just that purpose, complete with outlets and an umbrella to provide shade.

Her laptop was set up, folders spread out, mobile at her side. She had a collection of paperweights out to keep things down in the gentle breeze, a soft piece of blues playing through a speaker, and her reading glasses perched on her nose. Citronella candles (very elegant, of course) were placed strategically to keep the bugs away, and they provided a pleasant scent as a bonus.

It was as relaxed as she had been in some time, despite being elbow deep in paperwork and down a hand.

That probably said something not particularly great about her life.

She was thoroughly engrossed in reading over a file, chewing idly on a pen and tugging on a loose strand of hair. She never would have dared do something so inelegant had she thought anyone would be watching her.

She was utterly convinced she was alone.

 

*

 

When the voice spoke, it came from the opposite side of Anthea's table. Jinx had managed to manifest herself without a sound - as if she'd been there for hours, unseen, and only now chose to bring herself into being.

"You didn't fuck Lestrade," she said.

It wasn't a question.

 

*

 

Anthea swallowed a yelp - and nearly her pen, as well. She couldn’t conceal her startled jump, and decided to ignore it instead.

She cleared her throat gracefully, set the pen aside, tucked the strand of hair behind her ear, and looked over her glasses, arching a brow. Her expression was cool and placid, having smothered the shock already.

“And?”

_Go away. I am busy._

 

*

 

Jinx slid her thumbs quietly through her belt-loops. _I would wreck you in those glasses. You'd never be able to wear them again without squirming._

"Why did you want us all to think you did?" she said.

They were done prancing about here. Her cover was as good as blown. It had been marked for demolition the day Greg Lestrade arrived on the scene; sitting down to dinner with Anthea had set all the charges. Now they were just seeing out the inevitable.

And she needed to know.

 

*

 

Anthea exhaled softly and closed her eyes briefly.

_I may as well tell her the truth._

_It isn’t as though she could think any worse of me._

_And I am too invaluable to Mr. Holmes for him to fire me without demanding an explanation, should she choose to carry it back to him._

“I wanted to make Mr. Holmes jealous,” she said, opening her eyes. She adjusted her glasses upwards on the bridge of her nose, settling them more firmly. “So that he would act on his feelings for Lestrade.”

She made a note on the file she had been reading, refusing to look at Maguire. It was as if she were talking to herself, or perhaps reading a report.

“I miscalculated.”

No excuses. No explanation beyond that. A simple laying out of her mistake.

There was so much she could say; how easy it had been to manipulate them all, how she had thought that Mr. Holmes would be brave, how she had wanted to push Greg towards him, not away from him.

_What I did, I did for him. Mr. Holmes is all I have._

She said none of it. She just went back to reading her file, considering the conversation done.

 

*

 

Jinx listened, watching; she processed the truth she'd been given in silence.

After some time, as the evening breeze stirred through the tips of his hair, she shifted her stance back onto one heel.

"Jealousy only works on people who think they've got a chance," she said, and her eyes glittered. Nothing crossed her face. "Lestrade's gone running in a flap to Holmes... they're in the library. Thought you should know."

 

*

 

Anthea didn’t even look up, just turned a page in the report and crossed out an entire paragraph with a faint frown. “Very titillating information, Maguire,” she said dryly, changing from pen to highlighter. “I’ll be sure to make a note of it.”

God, she hoped Lestrade was complaining about her behavior.

Maybe he was even telling Mr. Holmes he was gay.

That was probably too much to hope for, however.

She highlighted a few lines, set the marker aside, and picked up the pen again.

 

*

 

"I like when you pretend not to care about things. It's - not exactly 'cute', but... I like it."

Jinx let a slight smile lift her mouth; she knew Anthea wouldn't see it. She wouldn't raise her eyes now. Jinx was expected to make herself scarce, and the most she could hope for was a glance at her backside as she walked away. This was a power-game, and Jinx was enjoying it too much not to play. She'd tried not to.

_Who could resist, though?_

Maybe this was the sad truth, she thought: Anthea would forget her lovers, but remember her enemies - and Jinx kinda wanted to be remembered.

That night on Anthea's doorstep had felt better than sex. Half an hour after orgasm, Anthea was probably back working at her laptop. Half an hour after being told to fuck off...

Jinx supposed she'd never know for sure.

It felt like a better chance, though.

She watched Anthea for a moment - those delicate wrists, slender fingers, still writing in focused silence. She reminded Jinx of the good girls at school: the ones who didn't have much to say to dorky, grinning Jinx, always covered in grazes and bringing frogs from the playing field into the classroom after lunch. She liked girls who were miles out of her league. Part of her was still fourteen, teasing them just so they'd turn their pretty eyes onto her for a second - a sneer felt as good as a smile, didn't it? It felt better than nothing, at least.

Anthea wasn't even in a league any more. She was another game entirely. This was 'I Spy' versus high-stakes poker.

And Jinx was still a scruffy kid, lying in a field and gazing at stars.

_Wonder if you'll still have me, all the same. Even just for kicks._

_Turning me down would probably feel better though, darlin', wouldn't it?_

_I wouldn't blame you. I'd do it, too._

_Wouldn't blame you if you persuaded me into Mr Holmes's room while he's out, tied me to his bed and left me there for him to find._

_Christ. Driver's hat, my tie and nothing else._

Deciding she'd better keep that particular idea off her face, in case Anthea somehow read it and starting making plans, Jinx pushed her hands into her pockets. She slid her tongue around her teeth.

"In case you're wondering," she said, scuffing her heel against the patio, "or just to complete your collection of 'titillating information'... for the record, I didn't actually - "

The white drapes covering the patio doors swept gently aside.

As Mycroft appeared, Jinx vanished in a blink. The individual standing before Anthea's table was replaced as if by cosmic sleight-of-hand, her shoulders suddenly slumped, her face open, her tomboyish features crumpled with regret. She was younger, scruffier - simpler.

" - way too far... honestly, it was - just a stupid joke. Can't believe I did it, really. I was out of line... massively." She bit her lip. "I'll roll it in, Anthea. I promise."

 

*

 

_Ah._

Mycroft paused in the patio doorway, realising he might have timed this poorly. It seemed making amends to Anthea was now by appointment. He had, at least, brought tea - two cups of Earl Grey on saucers, with a very discreet piece of coffee cake balanced beside her cup. He'd seen her enjoy it on a number of occasions. It seemed a poor sweetener for the disappointment he might be about to hand her, but he supposed the gesture of baked goods was universally understood.

Maguire was doing the decent thing, at least. A sincere apology was good to hear. Guilt twinged in Mycroft's stomach, realising his driver hadn't noticed his arrival - these were sentiments not intended for his hearing.

He coughed, quietly.

Maguire looked round.

Spotting him, despair flushed across her face. "Oh - Jesus - s-sorry, Mr Holmes..."

Mycroft found a smile for her at once, his gaze gentle.

"Quite alright," he said. "Forgive me. I didn't hear you from the kitchen. Shall I return in a few minutes?"

Maguire's eyes flashed towards Anthea, checking nervously.

 

*

 

Anthea finally looked up from her paperwork, regarding Maguire coolly. Her eyes said _I’ve caught you_.

The rest of her expression said nothing.

After a long moment, she turned to Mr. Holmes with a slightly warmer expression. “No, sir. Now is fine. Maguire was just leaving.” A dismissal without interacting with the person being dismissed: an invaluable skill when dealing with politicians and errant drivers alike, it seemed.

Her eyes flitted to the cups in her employer’s hands.

_Tea and coffee cake._

_Something tells me I’m about to be let down gently._

_Finally._

She kept the smile off her face. It wouldn’t do to be happy about this.

_Careful. Careful._

“What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?” she asked, beginning to rise. Best to play this as if Maguire had already left, and she herself hadn’t noticed the apology coffee cake. “I have the Berlin file just about complete -”

 

*

 

Mycroft waited to take a seat until Maguire had stepped back inside the house, the drapes fluttering into place behind her. The girl's eyes stayed low as she left, her shoulders dropped; Mycroft almost felt sorry for her.

Then, turning a garden hose onto Anthea was the closest thing to a capital offence in this house. In terms of reckless acts, it was second only to sneaking up behind Lestrade with a balloon and a pin - or attempting to bathe Alice.

Joining his assistant at the table, he placed her tea cup to her right-hand side. She'd be favouring that hand, after her injury. He turned it so that the fork appeared at the right angle for her to take up with ease, then took a seat.

"I appreciate that you've been greatly over-burdened this week... with full awareness that I over-burden you even in ordinary circumstances. You've strained yourself to keep us afloat."

He looked at her over the rim of his tea cup, as he took a first quiet sip.

"Your efforts have been noted," he said, returning the cup to the saucer. "They are much appreciated. If some way to express my gratitude occurs to you in the coming weeks, I'd be glad to hear it."

Mycroft Holmes didn't write out blank cheques for favours freely. The full list of _'things within my power'_ was extensive - and not necessarily confined by trifles such as law or monetary expense. If she wanted a film version of one of her tawdry romance novels producing, Mycroft was sure he could make a call to someone or other.

 

*

 

Anthea sat herself back down carefully, allowing a small smile to grace her lips. There was very little point in false modesty between them; they were both aware of their positions, in the world and relative to each other. He had enough power to make most people dizzy, but without her, many of the plates he kept balanced would come tumbling down. She was indispensable to him, and she knew it.

Still, it was nice to be acknowledged. She _had_ been working overtime this week to allow Mr. Holmes his despair, and it was taking its toll. She would do it again in a heartbeat if he needed it, but she rather hoped he didn’t (for a myriad of reasons).

A blank cheque for any favour she wanted… That she’d have to ruminate on. It wasn’t as though she wanted for very much; all her hard work did come with perks, after all, and most things she wanted she could get for herself.

Her phone beeped a quiet, very specific tone, and a faintly pained look passed over her face. She didn’t even have to look at it to know what it was.

_Mother._

Maybe she wouldn’t have to think so long, after all. If Mother was trying to reschedule their monthly luncheon to sooner rather than later, a national crisis might have to pop up.

She ignored the mobile for now and turned her attention to the coffee cake. Her eyes flicked to Mr. Holmes, expression warmer than before. “Thank you, sir,” she said sincerely. “I will certainly think on that.”

She took the first bite of cake and let an appreciative look cross her face.

 

*

 

Mycroft let her enjoy a little of her cake. It gave him a moment or two to make sure he'd calculated this correctly; he had no wish to cause her so much as a flicker of embarrassment. It was exceedingly rare for him to make any intrusion into Anthea's personal life. She was quite capable of managing her own affairs, and it was a gesture of affection from him - unchallenged privacy, the space to conduct herself as she wished.

For the sake of peace in the house, he had to intrude this time.

He'd considered the matter carefully after Greg's departure from the library. It hadn't taken him long. He believed he knew what outcome his assistant would want most in any situation, and it wasn't necessarily Lestrade. For Anthea, sexual partners seemed to come and go; there was a far more precious treasure he wanted to safeguard for her.

It was her dignity.

He'd rather have eviscerated himself with a butter knife than sit her somewhere, take her hand, and painfully explain that her attentions were perhaps wasted on Lestrade and he was sorry. A more horrifying scenario was impossible to imagine.

Instead, after a minute of contemplating the view across the parkland, Mycroft took an idle sip of tea. He inclined his head to her, and a small smile lifted his mouth.

"I'm afraid I have to amuse you with something," he said, his eyes taking on the quiet glint that was usually reserved for political gossip. It was a look she would know well. Someone had done something ridiculous, and he suspected she'd appreciate it.

 

*

 

Anthea’s brows lifted just slightly, and a faintly amused smile crossed her mouth. “Oh? Do tell,” she said, taking her tea in hand and sipping at it daintily.

This was something she had missed in the previous days; tea and gossip with Mr. Holmes. Neither one of them would admit it under pain of death, but there was something very relaxing about sharing tales over a cup of tea.

Old ladies got it right sometimes.

 

*

 

Mycroft primed himself with another sip of tea, rearranging one leg across the other.

"It seems Mrs Collins has been having misty-eyed romantic visions regarding yourself and Lestrade," he said. "It sounds as if she's rather gearing herself up for a spot of matchmaking... so I now have the enviable task of informing the poor woman that he's gay."

The smile against the rim of his tea cup was not performed. _Gay. The man is gay. God help me._ Mycroft persuaded the corners of his mouth to twist a little more, taking the expression from joyous and soft to more slyly amused, then settled it with another sip of tea.

The cup chinked pleasantly as he placed it down.  

"I can only hope she's already au fait with the concept of homosexuality," he said, "or it might be a tedious evening for me."

 

*

 

Anthea rolled her eyes and smiled a little, sipping at her tea. “Mrs. Collins is incapable of doing ‘a spot’ of anything,” she said, with a slightly fond tone. “I’m sure she already had our wedding planned.”

She took another bite of her coffee cake before continuing. “She was probably deciding between her blue hat or her green one. I hope she was going with the green; I would never marry someone who insisted upon blue as a color for our wedding.”

How convenient that both Mr. Holmes and Lestrade looked absolutely stunning in blue.

She wondered, for less than a fraction of a second, what Maguire looked like in green.

Another sip of tea. “I recommend avoiding the term ‘gay’,” she advised. “Else you may have to listen to her witter on about how happy she is that he and I have ‘found’ each other.”

A small, exasperated smile. “As if I would ever have Lestrade in any capacity. He wouldn’t suit me, nor I him.” A smirk. “For a number of reasons. Not least of which that he is gay.”

It was so nice to be able to say that, to drop the pretense and stop pretending she was at all interested in Lestrade.

He was solid, dependable, handsome, funny, and many other things.

And Anthea knew that she would have eaten him alive, in bed and out of it.

But he was just what Mr. Holmes needed. So she would repeat that Lestrade was gay and that she had absolutely zero interest in him as often as she could. New tactics and all that.

 

*

 

It was all Mycroft could do not to lie himself down upon the patio in relief. He decided he might just do so, later - wait until everyone had gone to bed, slip out into the cool and dark gardens unseen, and just lie facedown on the lawn for a while. Nothing else seemed to properly express the depths of his relief. _Thank Christ._

_Thank God._

She would be fine.

He had the distinct impression she had, in fact, always been fine. Whether she'd genuinely set her sights on Lestrade or not, it suddenly didn't seem to matter. This news (if indeed it was news) had been received with nothing but humour and good grace, and she would not take issue with Lestrade. Lestrade would have no reason to feel guilty; Maguire had finally dug the word 'sorry' out of her pockets. Mrs Collins could gossip herself into a stupor, so far as Mycroft cared. What her Tuesday night knitting club thought of the goings-on in this house, it was far beyond his reach and so would not keep him awake at night.

Everyone within the house would be well.

For a moment, Mycroft found himself reeling with it - how swiftly it had all eased, how utterly the relief had drenched him. He felt like a man reborn. He felt as if something had risen from the earth and invigorated him from his heart to the tips of his fingers.

In fact, only a single fact had changed.

_Oh, god..._

_God, if I had any sense..._

It should mean nothing. Lestrade was his employee; the man's sexual orientation shouldn't matter a jot to Mycroft, whether it fell in his favour or not. It should be none of his business, none of his concern, and he shouldn't now feel as if someone had cast sunlight through his soul in streams.

And yet he did.

_Dear god... it's love._

_I've placed my happiness in him. All of it. Every speck of it._

_It's all in him._

Mycroft closed his eyes, trying to settle himself with a drink of tea. He barely tasted it. Only his careful grasp of the cup disguised the shake of his fingers.

_If he wished to place some of his happiness in me..._

He could barely contain the possibility. It wanted to burst outwards from him like he was a bloody glitterball hanging in a discotheque.

_Restrain yourself, man._

_You are forty-six. Not seventeen._

Stretching in his chair, Mycroft breathed in the scent of his tea. It wasn't a sigh, he told himself. He was merely breathing. Nobody could possibly accuse him of otherwise.

"Perhaps she'll move onto me, now her dreams of the two of you have been dashed. I'm surprised I haven't already been introduced to someone named Sue or Doreen from her gin club..."

He put down his tea cup, raising an eyebrow.

"Excuse me - 'knitting club'."

 

*

 

“Now now, Mr. Holmes,” Anthea chided. “Doreen is a lovely woman. Her grandson… not so much.”

She shook her head at the memory of that date. She wasn't sure the man (Tim? Jim? Something.) had even noticed when she had left halfway through the entree, nattering on as he was.

“She’ll probably introduce you to Virginia at some point,” she said, sighing. “Brace yourself for that.”

Sipping at her tea, she didn't bother to hold back a smirk. “Maybe she’ll set Ellen on Lestrade. Poor man.”

She raised her eyebrows and whispered conspiratorially, “She's a _loose woman_ , you know.”

Just like that, they had settled back into their completely-not-gossiping ways, and all was well in the world.

The love Mr. Holmes held for Lestrade was shining out once more, and she could only hope that Lestrade would reciprocate sooner rather than later.

 


	31. Rescue Attempt

Mycroft woke the next morning to the feeling that things were rather wonderful. It took him a moment to put his finger on why, lying at peace in the half-darkness with a quiet half-smile on his face. 

When he remembered, it grew at once to a full smile. 

_ A better day. _

_ Far better. _

He drifted for a while in the calm, enjoying the comfort of his pillows and the sheets. He'd had an excellent night's sleep; everything seemed better in its wake. There was a familiar lump curled against the back of his knees, and he could feel her breathing.  _ Scamp.  _ She really had obliterated the rule of 'not in my bedroom'. Then, he supposed that if all his suits ended up with flecks of cream fur, it mattered very little. 

After some time, Mycroft heard a door open beyond his own. Quiet footsteps moved out in the corridor. 

_ Greg.  _

The thought tightened his heart. His bodyguard was up for the day, moving to the bathroom, taking his time to wash and shave... putting on his jeans. Beginning the morning.

_ Dear God... even that thought moves me. _

_ Every single thought. _

There came the gentle hiss of hot water in the pipes. Mycroft stretched, half-asleep, trying not to dwell on the thought of Greg now soaping himself under hot water - suds running lazily down his chest. 

_ If I simply slipped along the corridor, and joined him... _

_ Heaven help me.  _

The shift of his legs disturbed Alice, who gave him a short harrumph for it. She wriggled, got up and stretched, the mattress shaking gently as she arched her elegant back to its fullest. 

There came a flump as her paws hit the floor, then a moment later, a sly creak of the door. Her adventures for the day had started.

Mycroft made use of the space to tip onto his back, stretching, breathing deep. 

_ Yes. An excellent day to come. _

 

*

 

Greg heard a similar creak of the door as he stood under the spray of the shower. He blinked and shook his head, then peeked around the curtain.

“Excuse you, Your Highness, but this room is occupied at present,” he scolded, giving her a look.

The day was already shaping up to be a very good one, but if Alice decided that he was drowning and she needed to save him by hopping in beside him, it was going to go downhill very quickly.

“Shoo,” he said, flicking water at her gently.

 

*

 

Alice jumped at the incoming flecks of water, and sneezed as one landed on her nose. She wiped it carefully with a paw, then clearly decided this situation required further investigation. Greg was trying to get her attention, and needed assistance.

Her head appeared under the shower curtain with a crinkling sound; she announced herself to the shower with a loud meow. Squinting upwards, her chocolate-coloured ears pricked and her tail began to curl outside the curtain.

_ "Brrrrrp?" _ she said. 

 

*

 

“No,” Greg said, flattening himself against the wall. He did  _ not _ want to be in range when she discovered the spray. Lacerations, even accidental ones, were not conducive to a good morning.

“Trust me, beautiful, you don’t want to be in here,” he warned. “It’s very wet. Shoo.”

He resisted the urge to cover himself. She was a cat, for heaven’s sake. What was she going to do, go tell Mycroft what she had seen?

Heat flooded his cheeks. Now there was a thought. A thought that he very much didn’t need to be having with the threat of a wet Alice at his feet.

 

*

 

Oh, dear. The situation was worse than Alice had feared. 

Poor Greg was clearly petrified of the water now raining from the ceiling, and the only option now was to call for back-up.

 

*

 

_ "Yooooooow! Yoooowwwww... yoooowwwwww-ow-ow..." _

Mycroft opened his eyes to the ceiling of his bedroom. Meows didn't usually echo.

These ones did - loudly, and at pitch. Alice didn't sound as if she was in pain. He recognised it vaguely as the noise she sometimes made when guests were ignoring her - a reason Mycroft no longer conducted business in his home.

Rubbing under his eyes, Mycroft offered a quiet prayer to any listening deity that she wasn't where he thought she was.

The yowls continued. 

Pushing back the sheets, Mycroft swung his feet out of bed.

 

*

 

“Oh my God, Alice, hush!” Greg scolded, still flat against the back wall. “I’m fine! It’s a shower!”

Alice was having none of it. The alarm was being sounded because he was clearly in imminent peril, and nothing short of him getting out of the shower would earn her silence.

He rolled his eyes and stepped back under the spray. “Fine. Yell. You’re going to be sad when you get wet,” he warned her, reaching for the shampoo.

He could only hope she decided to stay halfway under the curtain instead of jumping all the way in to ‘rescue’ him.

 

*

 

As soon as Mycroft left his bedroom, the situation became apparent.  _ Oh, lord.  _ The bathroom door was open precisely one Alice-width, and her yowls were reverberating at volume from within. He could hear Greg trying to reason with her over the noise of the shower. 

_ Thank heavens this happened today, and not yesterday... _

Approaching the door, Mycroft knocked carefully with the back of his knuckles. He bit his lip. He couldn't help it.

"What precisely are you doing to my cat, Lestrade?" he called. He couldn't keep the smile out of his voice. 

 

*

 

Greg grinned as he heard Mycroft’s voice.

“More like what is your cat doing to me?” he called back. “I’m trying to keep her from accidentally taking a shower!”

He licked his lips and grinned, biting his lip roguishly. 

“Mind coming and getting her? Bit hard to concentrate on getting washed up with the threat of Alice taking out my ankles!”

_ Could join me, too. Save some water. Good for the environment. _

He shook his head and stuck his face in the spray.  _ Settle, Lestrade. _

 

*

 

_ My lucky day indeed.  _ Mycroft suppressed a smile, called, "In that case, I trust that you're at least semi-decent," and entered the bathroom.

He glanced at the white shower curtain long enough to establish he could see a silhouette through it, then carefully averted his eyes. There was half a siamese cat sticking out the bottom of it, her tail waving agitatedly from side-to-side. Greg's calls had only convinced her to shout louder.

"Alice," her papa said, sternly. "This is unladylike of you. At least buy the man a drink."

He reached down to take hold of her. 

As soon as his hands touched her sides, she slipped through them like a bar of soap and shot beneath the curtain. 

"Christ -  _ Alice - " _

Inside the shower, Alice let out a startled  _ 'brrrrp!' _ to find herself suddenly wet. She darted between Greg's legs to the other side of the spray and huddled against the wall, meowing in panic. 

_ Oh, sweet Jesus. _

"And our new plan?" Mycroft asked through the curtain, as Alice wailed for him to get in here and save them.

 

*

 

Greg yelped and barely managed to hold his footing as Alice darted between his legs. That was all they needed now; him concussed and her wet and pathetic.

“Jesus Christ.” He rubbed his face and turned off the spray for the time being. He glared at Alice, who was still howling. “This is your own fault, you know.”

He looked over his shoulder through the curtain. “If you’ll hand me a towel, I can try to bundle her up and hand her to you,” he offered.

A pause as he realized that he could see Mycroft’s silhouette through the curtain, and what that meant.

“Maybe two towels.”

 

*

 

"Excellent. Stay there a moment."

_ As if he would otherwise wander off?  _ Mycroft turned to the towel rail, took two of the largest and approached the curtain edge, carefully keeping his head turned.

He shut his eyes.

"I now have two towels," he announced. Alice screamed that this was no time for talking - this was a time for rescuing. "My eyes are closed, upon my honour."

_ Don't smile. Don't smile. This is a harrowing situation. It would be wicked to smile. _

"If you can bundle her carefully, please. She doesn't like water."

 

*

 

“Yeah, I sort of picked up on that,” Greg said wryly. “It was the anguished howls that tipped me off.”

He reached around the curtain and took hold of the towels, bringing them in. “Got ‘em.”

He stared at Alice and realized that there wasn’t going to be time to wrap one around his waist like he had hoped. She needed to get out right this second.

He approached her with one towel slung over his shoulder and the other spread open like a cape. Hopefully he could snag her, wrap her up, and rest her on his shoulder.

Unfortunately, Alice had other plans. As Greg approached her, she decided that she had had quite enough and was going to rescue herself. With the magic that all cats possessed, she shot past him and encountered the curtain.

That was where it all went to buggery.

Greg turned round, reaching for her.

 

*

 

Alice - with a scream of panic - rocketed through Greg's hands like a squirrel. She took the only route of escape available to her: upwards. 

The sudden appearance of claws through the shower curtain made Mycroft jump back in alarm.

"Greg!" he began, but it was too late. The shower curtain began to rip. Huge tears split their way downwards as Alice scrambled up.  _ Oh, Jesus -  _

Mycroft lunged for her.

The shower curtain was not designed to support the weight of a frightened siamese - nor a fully-grown man in addition. The second Mycroft's hands closed in it, there came a crack and a ripping noise. The whole thing came down like a wet parachute on top of them. Mycroft staggered forwards with a cry, threw out both hands and encountered something wet and solid to grab onto. As he realised it was Greg's shoulders, and the two of them were now falling against the wall wrapped in a wet shower curtain, Mycroft wondered if there was any tiny chance this might be a dream.

Alice - now long-gone from the bathroom - proceeded into the north wing in search of help, wailing at top volume that Papa and Greg were in trouble; and worse, she was  _ wet. _

 

*

 

_ Oh, Christ - _

And that was all the thought that managed to cross Greg’s mind before he found himself with arms full of man instead of cat. The shower curtain billowed around them and made it entirely impossible for him to brace their fall at all.

Mycroft had the advantage of landing on something soft. Unfortunately, that something was Greg, who landed against the wall with a deep  _ ‘thud!’ _ and a swear.

True to form, however, he didn’t let go of the man he was supposed to be protecting. 

To be fair, the man hadn’t let go of him, either; Greg was suddenly very aware of the hands on his shoulders (not to mention his own state of undress).

_ Oh, Christ.  _

_ When I thought ‘join me in the shower’ this is NOT what I meant. _

_ Now is not the time to be thinking about what I  _ did _ mean!! _

He swallowed hard and looked down. “You alright?”

 

*

 

_ Oh Jesus. _

"Oh - god - " Mycroft looked up in wide-eyed panic from Greg's arms, just as tightly-wound as Alice had been. His grip stiffened. "Dear god, did I hurt - "

_ Sweet Jesus - don't - don't think about -  _

"Oh god, you're naked - " 

_ Oh GOD! STOP! _

Mycroft buried his face in the nearest available surface. 

Realising the surface in question was Greg's chest, he gave up entirely and simply groaned, cringing with every single muscle in his body.

"I planned none of this," came out of his mouth before he could stop it. 

His brain whimpered, curled itself into a ball and rolled away. 

 

*

 

Greg chuckled, low in his chest. “I hope that if you were planning to join me in the shower, it wouldn’t start with Alice yelling and end with property destruction.”

The one tiny portion of his brain that was still functioning was screeching at the top of its lungs, trying to sound the alarm and take control of his body.

The rest of his brain was focusing on how nice it was to have Mycroft in his arms.

Mycroft on his chest. Mycroft’s hands on his shoulders.

All very good.

Greg managed to work a hand free and caught Mycroft’s chin, tilting his face up. He smiled softly, gaze gentle. “Hey,” he said, soothingly. “It’s fine. No harm done. I’m fine. Promise.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart contracted hard. He lifted his face at the careful touch, his breath shallowing in an instant, and found himself gazing into Greg's eyes, taking him in - his wet hair, his gentle expression. 

_ Oh...  _

_ Oh, god... _

He realised his mouth was a little open, and closed it. Embarrassment flushed across his face. His cheeks grew pink at once, and with a look of desperate apology, he said,

"I'm - glad you aren't h-hurt." Drawing a breath, he swallowed. "I'd - offer to retrieve the towels, but - ..." 

_ That would necessitate me kneeling down, and coming face-to-face with your groin.  _

_ And frankly my heart won't take the strain.  _

 

*

 

“S’fine,” Greg said, shrugging a little.

_ Oh God. The blush. Jesus. _

“They’re probably all wet anyways.”

The tiny bit of rationality and sense he had been clinging to washed away, waving forlornly as it went.

“Like me and you.”

His arms tightened around the other man without direction from his brain, settling him more firmly.

_ I have officially lost my mind, and possibly my job. _

_ Fuck it. _

 

*

 

_ Oh -  _

Arms tightening; Mycroft's pupils swelled at once. The breath vanished from his lungs.

_ Oh, god. _

He was wet - wet and beautiful.

And gay.

Mycroft's eyes flickered, dropping to Greg's mouth. The expression that crossed his face was fragile, faint, and so soft it looked like pain. He could feel his heart drumming in every part of him, and it would be so easy - so gentle - just to lean up, press his lips to Greg's, and let the world end in a moment then begin again anew.

"Greg..." he said, quietly.

There came a strange creak from nearby.

"Everything alright in here?" came a tentative voice - and as Mycroft recognised the concerned tones of Jinx Maguire from the bathroom door, his expression shuttered with humour. 

His eyes stayed locked on Greg's, glittering.

"How we do explain?" he murmured.

 

*

 

_ Jinx, I will kill you. I will kill you and hide your body and no one will ever fucking find you. _

_ You are so incredibly dead. _

Greg let none of that cross his face. He just smirked instead, eyes crinkling with humour. “Fuck it. Let them wonder,” he breathed.

He lifted his chin and raised his voice. “We’re fine, Maguire,” he called. “Shut your eyes and throw some towels this way, will you? I’m a bit indisposed at the moment, and definitely not fit for ladies’ eyes.”

He grinned. “Or yours, for that matter.”

 

*

 

There was a fascinated pause. 

"'We'?" Jinx checked, and Mycroft visibly bit the end of his tongue. His eyes flashed with delight as they looked into Greg's.

"Get towels, Maguire," he called. "We'll discuss the details of this later."

There came an audible mutter of, "Oh Christ..." then Jinx cautiously entered the room. Peering around the corner, she found her employer in wet pyjamas carefully shielding Greg's nudity from her eyes, the pair of them tangled in a shredded shower curtain with half the rail hanging down.

Her mouth opened.

Mycroft coughed.  _ "Towels,  _ Maguire."

Her brain rebooted. She closed her mouth. "Right," she said, dragged two towels off the rail, and brought them over with a wild-eyed look. "Erm - if I - "

Mycroft reached around, twisting his torso slightly to take hold of one.

_ "Thank _ you," he said, shook it out, and glanced at Greg. "I'm going to step back. Maguire, avert your eyes."

She turned to face the wall, pressing the other towel over her eyes.

 

*

 

“Thanks,” Greg said, trying hard not to smirk. As he was reaching out to take the towel, he heard Anthea’s voice coming round the bend.

In a moment of panic, he yanked both towel and towel-holder close to him, holding the cloth in front of his groin.

Unfortunately (fortunately?) that meant that Mr. Holmes’ hand was  _ very _ close to said groin, as well.

Great.

 

*

 

“Alice has informed me of some sort of - oh.”

Anthea smirked, eyes dancing with delight. Lestrade, naked except for a towel clutched to the front of his crotch. Mr. Holmes in wet pyjamas and holding onto said towel.

“Oh dear,” she purred. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.” She glanced sideways at Maguire, whose face was still firmly buried in towel.

 

*

 

"I wasn't involved in this until a very late stage," Jinx muffled into the towel, staying exactly where she was. 

Mycroft masked his smile at once. He turned to his assistant, gave her a quietly beseeching look, and said, 

"Kindly avert your gaze. This is a delicate situation."

When she'd joined Maguire in facing the wall, Mycroft returned his eyes gently to Greg. Protectiveness softened his expression. 

"Here," he said, removed the towel from Greg's clutches, and let the split-second's glimpse of him naked raise no reaction at all in his face. He put the towel around Greg gently, then reached across and tugged the other one out of Maguire's grasp. He drew it around Greg's shoulders. "Are you quite alright?" he asked. 

There came an inquiring trill from the door, as four small feet came pattering in.

 

*

 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Greg said, smiling softly. He glared playfully at Alice as he settled the towel more firmly about his waist. “No thanks to you, Your Highness.”

He had to focus on scolding Alice, or the knowledge that Mycroft had almost certainly seen his cock was going to rise to the forefront of his mind.

_ ‘Rise’  _ being the keyword there.

_ Not thinking about it. Very definitely not thinking about it. _

 

*

 

Even facing the wall as she was, Anthea was working very hard to keep the smirk off her face. The tension between Mr. Holmes and Lestrade was thick enough to use for cheap building material.

She would bet a fairly sizeable sum of money that they would be in each other’s bed before the week was out.

_ Success at last. _

Once the two men were fully engrossed in each other, Anthea decided, then she would turn her attention to the mystery of Maguire.

She was quite looking forward to that.

 

*

 

As a small head butted gently against his ankle, Mycroft looked down. Two large blue eyes gazed up at him. She trilled. With a quiet sigh, he bent down.

"Come here," he murmured. "Imp."

Alice squirmed happily as he picked her up. She batted beneath his chin; Mycroft ignored her, settling her in his arms to face his bodyguard. 

Alice blinked.

"Apologise to Greg at once," Mycroft said, looking down at her.

She gave a happy, bubbling  _ 'churr', _ soft as a little bird, and stretched out a paw. She placed it on the end of Greg's nose. It didn't sound particularly apologetic, but she was pleased to see him safe and well.

"You behaved recklessly, didn't you?" her papa said. "Now we have no shower curtain, and I am wet. You imperilled Greg's dignity. It isn't even seven AM."

Alice began to bat at the edge of Greg's towel.

 

*

 

“Naughty,” Greg chided, stepping back and wagging a finger at her. “That’s staying on, thank you very much.” 

He looked over his shoulder. “And  _ that _ is going to have to get fixed up sooner rather than later. Can’t very well use the shower in the exercise room all the time.” He heaved a sigh. “Although that’s going to have to happen this morning, since  _ someone _ interrupted me not even halfway through my shower.”

He’d not even gotten shampoo in his hair. Thank goodness the shower downstairs contained everything he would need; time was growing short and he really did need to bathe before they headed for London.

“Your cat is a menace, sir,” he said, smirking. “Think you can keep her contained while I go threaten Mrs. Collins’ sensibilities?”

 

*

 

Mycroft had almost entirely forgotten they had an audience. His eyes danced wildly, and as Alice cuddled happily against his chest, now chewing on the lapel of his pyjamas, he said,

"So long as you don't inveigle her into any further mischief, yes. I'm sure that's within my power."

The corner of his mouth curved.

"If you're no longer in need of assistance, I think I'll go and change out of these wet things. If that suits? Do scream if you run into any further difficulties, though."

 

*

 

_ If that suits. _

_ What would suit is me taking those wet clothes off you, and then taking you on the floor. _

Greg managed to keep the thought off his face, for the most part, though he was sure his pupils had blown wide.

“Do my best,” he promised, smirking a little. 

He looked over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Don’t you ladies have better things to be doing than staring at the wall?” he asked, a hand on his hip. “Cars to make ready, shower curtains to order, that sort of thing? Show’s over.”

 


	32. Sir

Jinx was ready outside the house for eight. 

As the front door opened, and the glorious trio emerged, she couldn't fight a smile. Mycroft and Anthea were sharing some sly comment or other, laughing in that wolfishly clever political way of theirs; Greg was locking up the house behind them. He seemed happy and at ease for the first time in days.

As she switched off the radio, Jinx took a moment just to be glad. It looked like things might just be back on track.  _ Thank Christ.  _ The whole house felt different this morning. It was like a curse had suddenly lifted.

Mr Holmes and Greg got into the backseat together. As Mycroft discreetly closed the privacy screen, Jinx had to hide another smile. 

She tended to her black leather driving gloves, pulling them on and flexing out her fingers as the passenger's door opened. Her companion for the journey got in. The door closed, auto-locked with a soft clunk, and Jinx switched on the engine.

As they rolled out of the yard towards the lane, she said,

"Wednesday."

 

*

 

Anthea huffed a little, amused. “Monday.”  _ If only because the house may burst into flames if they wait any longer than that. _

She, too, had noticed the closing of the privacy screen. Monday was hedging her bets; if they weren’t sharing a bedroom by the time the weekend was over, she would be very surprised.

Although… the tension between them had a different sort of flavor. A calmness about it that could possibly have meant that they were willing to wait.

_ Except Mr. Holmes has now seen Lestrade completely nude, and Lestrade doesn’t seem the type to wait when he knows what he wants. _

She smirked a little to herself as she went through her emails for the day, replying and forwarding as needed.

A tiny frown crossed her face when her mobile pinged with a text message.

_ Mother is very insistent this month. Joy. _

There was probably no getting out of it, then: she’d have to go see her parents this weekend.

Unbeknownst to her, her shoulders pulled back and tightened as she read the message dictating that they  _ would _ , in fact, be having their monthly luncheon  _ this _ weekend, not  _ next _ weekend.

 

*

 

Jinx clucked her tongue. "Nah... toying with each other now. They're drawing it out. Going to be all the more explosive when it happens. Probably best if we're out of the house on Wednesday... tell Mrs Collins to take the night off, maybe..."

As they passed through the gates, heading on through the woods, she noticed Anthea shift out of the corner of her eye. 

Running her tongue quietly over her teeth, she said,

"Is that bra still giving you trouble? You need a proper one. I've told you this."

 

*

 

A very delicate noise came from Anthea - one that would have been a snort in anyone else. “Still fixated on my underthings, are we, Maguire? I assure you, that is not the issue here.”

_ Want to come to my next fitting with me? Make sure they’re doing it properly? You seem awfully invested in this, after all. _

She sent off one last (probably futile) attempt to fend off her mother and turned her attention back to her emails.

“Did you learn anything from my gift? Gain some taste at last, dare we dream?” she asked dryly, shooting Maguire a sideways glance.

_ Who are you, really? _

 

*

 

Jinx kept her eyes above the wheel. In truth, she could drive these roads blindfolded - it was nice to feel Anthea looking at her, though. 

It made the corner of her mouth curve.

"I learned you're probably cold in winter," she said. "How d'you keep warm? Star jumps when nobody's looking, is it? Then again, you probably couldn't do many star jumps in those things...  not without some serious adjustment afterwards."

_ Why is this so easy? Why's it feel so good? _

_ Could sit here and tease you all day. _

 

*

 

“As much of a surprise as it may be,” Anthea said, eye roll audible in her voice, “some of us  _ do _ adjust our wardrobe according to the seasons.”

In fact, she paid quite good money for warmer underthings in winter, and her outfits featured far more fitted slacks than skirts. That, combined with a stiff upper lip, saw her through the worst of London’s dreary winters.

It helped that she had a collection of expensive and warming alcohol for when she came in out of the cold.

“But do feel free to occupy yourself with the thought of me doing star jumps. I’m sure it’ll offer you quite a few hours of diversion.” Her voice had dropped to a purr.

 

*

 

Jinx's low chuckle rumbled from the very pit of her throat.

"You have  _ winter underpants,"  _ she said. "Amazing. Fleece with snowflakes on, is it? Reindeers and candy canes?" 

She wouldn't need the thought of star jumps to stay entertained today; Anthea in Christmas-themed novelty underwear would do the job just nicely.  _ Saucy Mrs Clause,  _ she thought, smirking in delight.  _ Santa's helper elf. Knitted things with furry trim. _

_ Brilliant. _

"Does Mr Holmes adjust his underwear by season?" she asked, pleased. "I could ask Lestrade, I suppose, but you might as well tell me now..."

 

*

 

Anthea was actually in charge of the household’s seasonal wardrobe changes, up to and including underwear.

She was sure Maguire had figured that out, however; she had been with the household for the better part of a decade at this point.

“I leave that as an exercise for the audience,” she said. “You can ruminate on my knowledge of Mr. Holmes’ underthings privately. Just keep us on the road, please, or I'll be sure it's  _ you  _ who explains to Mr. Holmes that it was his underwear that caused a crash.”

 

*

 

"Not sure it'd really be a surprise at this stage," Jinx said, mildly. "Seeing as Lestrade's cock pulled a shower curtain down this morning. It'll be a miracle if we all live to see the evening..."

She reached for the gearstick, handling the car with the same absent-minded ease as a master swordsman wields a weapon.

"I'd have to try seriously hard to crash this thing," she said. "On these roads, I'd just get us tangled in a hedge for a bit... don't think I could actually injure any of us if I tried." 

Biting the side of her tongue, she said,

"You should come out on the motorbike some time. Get the wind through your hair. You'll need your cosy underpants on - chilly back there at high speeds."

 

*

 

Anthea couldn't help but imagine that. It was quite a thought; high speeds, clinging tightly to Maguire…

Not to mention that the woman was a  _ very _ competent driver, and competency and displays of skill had always served to get Anthea’s libido going.

A tad inconvenient at the moment.

“I'll see if I can work that into my schedule,” she said wryly. “Afraid the next month is booked rather solid. I'll let you know.”

Her mobile pinged with another text message. 

_ Damn. _

Sunday was going to be a Hell of an ordeal. Something had clearly happened to make her mother want to move the luncheon up.

She was dreading what it could possibly be.

 

*

 

_ Not a no,  _ Jinx noted. 

_ Mm.  _

The silence that settled as Anthea attended to her text messages was interesting, too. Didn't look like work - she used e-mail for work. Jinx wasn't so dishonourable that she'd take a glance, but the space that appeared within the car had a strangeness to it. She knew instinctively that it wasn't a thing to aim a joke at.

She let Anthea deal with it for a minute - then, when the faster click of e-mail responses returned, she said,

"Monday, then. Final answer? You know we've got twenty quid riding on this now, don't you?"

 

*

 

“Oh, do we?” Anthea asked, raising a brow. “I seem to have missed that memo.”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Monday. And you? Wednesday, is it?”

It felt a little naughty to be betting on Mr. Holmes and Lestrade, and had it been any other employee, she would have had a sharp rebuke to deliver.

But it was Maguire, and Maguire was different.

She leaned back and crossed her legs. “And if they exceed our expectations? What then?”

 

*

 

"What - you think it'll happen  _ this _ weekend?" 

Jinx thought about it, rolling the idea around in her mind. After a moment, her freckled nose crinkled. 

"Nah. Too many people around and about... you and me. Mrs Collins, cleaning. It's too busy during the day. Mr Holmes'll need privacy, and you know it. It'll happen on a weekday, in the evening, when everyone's crept off for the night and they're alone."

She took the turn onto the road out to London, checking both ways.

"If it  _ does  _ happen this weekend," she said, "we'll give each other twenty quid - in the form of expensive wine, which we'll be taking on my bike to a hill somewhere."

 

*

 

_ Good Christ. _

_ Betting on Mr. Holmes’ sex life. _

_ What you do to me, Maguire… _

Anthea rose a brow. “You and I clearly have very different ideas of what qualifies as ‘expensive’ wine.” Not that that was much of a surprise; they were from completely different layers in the social strata.

Or at least, Anthea and Jessamine Maguire were, and that was not necessarily who was sitting next to her.

She sent off a couple more emails. “Double or nothing if they manage to last beyond Wednesday. Wine and dinner at my flat.”

 

*

 

"Christ - they're not going to last that long. Nobody will be able to breathe anymore... think of the fucking tension. Even Mrs Collins'll notice."

Jinx thought about it a moment longer.

"You're on," she said, reached for the radio, and carefully turned it on. She kept the volume low. The privacy division kept conversation from travelling between the front and back of the car, but the vibrations of music could sometimes be felt. 

Some quiet song filled the car - a love song, soft and easy, a male voice and an acoustic guitar.

Jinx let it play for a few moments. 

She then quietly changed the channel. London traffic report - heavy as usual. Cannon Street closed eastbound at Queen Victoria Street for emergency gas works; temporary speed limit in place on Greenford Roundabout. 

They'd be there by nine.

 

*

 

"Have you quite recovered yet?" Mycroft asked, his eyes bright, as Greg settled into the backseat with him. He leant forwards to slide the privacy screen shut - not an unusual decision to wish to talk to Greg in peace. Maguire could slyly listen to the radio that way, too. "I fear we've had an eventful day already..."

His new suit of slimmer cut was back; he was wearing his cologne again. 

 

*

 

Greg laughed easily, leaning back in his seat. “Completely,” he assured Mycroft. “Won't have to do any cardio today though, that's for sure.”

_ And what a day it's been so far. _

_ God, you look amazing. _

_ I've missed this. _

He grinned cheekily. “Hopefully the rest of the day is less exciting; not sure how we’d top that.”

 

*

 

"Yes, I... think we've exhausted our quota of shenanigans now," Mycroft said, his eyes flashing with fond amusement. He couldn't bring himself to be embarrassed. The poor man had been attacked in the nude by both Alice and Mycroft, and had somehow retained his sense of humour. He frankly deserved a pay-rise - though Mycroft wasn't sure the timing of such a decision would reflect well on his ethics as an employer.  _ Gay, you say? I think we need to up your salary, Lestrade. _

"If it helps you feel at ease, I have a lot of very dull meetings and paperwork in the diary today... I doubt you're at risk of much except falling asleep propped in a corner."

Mycroft adjusted his cufflinks absently as he spoke, a brief show of the snowy-white skin inside his wrists. 

"Especially at two PM," he added, with a small smile, "as we're going to see your favourite person... I hope you brought your smarties."

 

*

 

Greg groaned and put his head in his hands. “I am going to defenestrate myself. Or maybe him.”

He peeked up through his fingers with a grin. “Shannon taught me that one. From her word-a-day calendar. She's been expanding my vocabulary. Apparently my lexicon isn't up to her standards.”

He smiled and folded his arms on his knees, slouching forward. “She taught me that one, too. Adrienne is on the verge of burning the thing, I hear, since her sister is being a touch insufferable about all the new words.”

He smiled and ruffled his hair. “We’ll have them over at the weekend soon. I can teach Ri some new football tricks that she can show off, and you and Shan can use big words at each other.”

_ We.  _ Greg nearly shook his head at himself. As if it were their home, as if they were -

Together.

_ Be honest, Lestrade, at least with yourself. You want that. _

And now… now it might be possible.

He smiled softly to himself at the thought.

_ Just maybe _ .

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes shone. It was some time since the girls had been to stay; he'd worried Greg had grown uncomfortable having them there. Hearing him make plans was wonderful - beyond wonderful. 

"Of course," he said, reaching inside his jacket to answer the buzz of an e-mail. "I'll send you the upcoming calendar... I can't think of any monumental weekend commitments. Whenever is convenient for Melody I'm sure will be fine."

As he typed, a thought occurred. He glanced sideways at Greg, smiling.

"With the warmer weather, perhaps the girls would like to camp one night? Make a fire, toast marshmallows... how are your outdoorsman skills? Chopping firewood might rather suit you."

 

*

 

Greg grinned. “That would be great; I'm sure they'd love that.”

He snorted a little and sat back, folding his arms. “It’s been a while since I handled an axe, but I think I still remember how.” He arched a brow and smirked. “Think it would suit me, do you? All I'm fit for, manual labor?” he teased.

He pulled out his phone and shot off a quick message to his sister about the girls. He began making plans in his head; where they'd set the tent, where the fire pit would be set up, what they'd need to purchase for snacks.

It would be a great evening. Maybe he could even convince Mycroft to spend the night out with them. That would be a feat, but Greg was pretty sure he could manage it.

 

*

 

Mycroft chuckled softly. 

"I'd hardly say that," he murmured. "I merely note that, out of the four of us, the axe should perhaps rest in the hands of someone with the required muscle to swing it, rather than the politician or the two young girls..."

It felt marvellous to be thinking about the future - memories yet to come. A wonderful security seemed to be regrowing itself within their bond, strong and safe as vines, and plans were flourishing from it. All Mycroft wanted was to see them come to being.

_ Because you're staying,  _ he realised, as he looked at Greg. His heart flushed softly.  _ Because I shan't have to lose you. Not to someone else, not to some other place. I can rest in you. _

_ Oh God, if you were mine... _

The plans they could make. He'd take Greg everywhere - every city he'd ever enjoyed. Birthdays. Christmas. Right now, he'd be looking not at a bodyguard but a lover - a partner - a man who teased and comforted and supported him, made decisions with him, never left his side.

Mycroft's heart thumped desperately as he returned to his e-mail, trying to distract himself from the longing now curling through his chest. He could feel the first stirrings of heat across his cheeks; it was impossible not to imagine that sort of closeness and not blush.

"When we met," he said, "you mentioned that in time you'd want to train me in self-defence - when you had the alarms up to scratch, and you'd settled into the role - is that still something you'd want to pursue?"

 

*

 

Greg looked up, eyebrows arched slightly. “Oh, definitely,” he said. “Keeps me sharp, gives you a new skill set.”

He grinned. “Set the girls on you. I've already taught them the basics.”

His nose wrinkled a little as he frowned. “Theirs is a bit different, for a lot of reasons, but the basic idea is the same. Run, and if you can't, hurt your attacker until you can run. Make a hell of a lot of noise.”

He hoped the girls would never have to use the tools he had given them, but he was glad they had them.

A small smirk. “Of course, you have a few more options, being a smidge taller than they are.”

He shifted his weight. “So yeah, I'd be happy to teach you, if you can work me into your busy schedule.” Another teasing grin.

 

*

 

Mycroft laughed; it took years from his face. 

"'My busy schedule'," he remarked, delighted. "From one who knows how much time I now have to myself in my library... I'm certain I can find an hour or two for you to grow exasperated with me. We could attempt an introductory session this weekend, if you're feeling quite brave enough."

 

*

 

“Oh, it's not me who needs the bravery,” Greg said with an evil grin. He laced his fingers together and pushed them out, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

“Don't think I'm going to go easy on you just because you pay my wages, sir,” he warned, smirking. “You'll want to brace yourself. I can be quite unforgiving when I want to be.”

_ God, gorgeous. Pinning you to the floor… _

_ This is going to take a lot of self-control. _

Greg was looking forward to it.

 

*

 

Mycroft was, too. 

Enormously.

He eyed Greg with a soft, glittering amusement, recrossing his legs as he slipped his phone away into his pocket. He had plenty of time this afternoon to reply to people's brainless e-mails.

For now, he wanted Greg.

"I'm in no doubt that you'd be able to form me into paté," he said. "My vague and historic competency with acrobatics never translated into physical strength... I haven't encountered much need for hand-to-hand combat in my time. You'll be despairing over me within minutes, I'm sure."

Glancing down, removing a single strand of pale cream fur from his knee, he said,

"When we're alone, you - may use my first name, if you wish. I'll admit that 'sir' is rather nourishing for my ego, but it hardly needs it... you can dispense with public formalities, Greg - if it suits."

He looked up, holding his bodyguard's gaze.

"Unless I'm mistaken," he murmured, "I believe that you and I are rather past 'sir'."

 

*

 

Greg's heart threatened to burst out of his chest with joy. Warmth flooded through him and shone out of his smile.

His eyes crinkled with it. “Mycroft, then,” he said quietly, treasuring it like the most precious of jewels.

How many times had he gone to say that, and only barely caught himself in time? How many times had he wanted to call the man by his given name and had to hold himself back?

Now he could. It filled him with a heat and a calm that he would never be able to articulate properly.

Maybe he didn't have to. Maybe it was enough to just… be happy.

He smiled again, meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “Mycroft.”

He didn't think he would ever tire of saying it.

 

*

 

_ Dear god.  _ Mycroft had never heard his name held so fondly in someone's mouth before. This surely couldn't be the first time Greg had said it - and yet his heart was beating as hard as if it was. 

Colour rose with quiet delight in his cheeks.  _ Lord, don't let me blush each time he says it. _

"In public, it - would be best for you to continue with 'Mr Holmes'." He hesitated, smiling. "For the sensibilities of others... for propriety. I haven't those qualms in private, though." 

He wanted to touch Greg's hand so much it was almost painful. In this moment, it felt like it would be the most natural thing in the world simply to reach out and lace their fingers - as if nothing could be more right. 

Mycroft was realising self-defence training might test his restraint to its very limits. Even this quiet, casual closeness sent thoughts shivering through him. What would be going through his mind when they were within touching distance, and presumably in casual clothing, he didn't dare to imagine.

 

*

 

“Right. Propriety. Sensibilities. All that good stuff,” Greg said, smiling and leaning back in his seat to avoid leaning forward and taking Mycroft’s hand.

Or worse.

_ Keep it together, Lestrade. Just because he looks adorable and kissable - _

_ No. Nope. _

_ Anthea and Jinx are right up front. We’re going to be arriving soon.  _

_ Also inappropriate. That too. _

In what was probably a futile attempt to stave off his desires, Greg began discussing his plans to keep himself occupied during their two o'clock meeting, grinning impishly the whole time.

 


	33. Best For You

Friday had been a wonderful, productive day. The household was at peace, and everything was smooth and easy. Greg and Mycroft had settled to each other again, Anthea and Jinx were no longer at each other’s throats, and Mrs. Collins had moved on to planning the wedding of Ethel Winkle’s daughter (she would be wed in cream and mauve, Mrs. Collins had decided, because everyone knew  _ that _ girl couldn’t very well get married in  _ white). _

Mycroft spent the evening in the library, writing. 

It was an article for the quarterly journal of the Archives and Records Association, he told Greg, when camomile tea was very kindly brought to him at nine PM - the challenges of collections kept in private homes. Mycroft was writing a defence of the practice, with the argument that his collection would not have survived in the wild. Public funding was scant; these works found their meaning together. Scattered into the wind like leaves, sold off to this collector and that collector, they lost the sum of their parts.

He thanked Greg for the tea, smiling over his reading glasses, and wished him a restful night.

At ten PM on the dot, Jinx's security device registered Mr Holmes entering his room alone. The door closed, and was not opened again until the following morning.

 

*

 

Saturday was lovely - a warm, breezy day, which the household spent mostly outside. 

Anthea and Mycroft worked on the patio - work interspersed with watching Alice hunt bugs - while Greg and Jinx took some light repair work upon themselves. Unlike the last time the pair had stripped down, there was no thick black jealousy laying heavy in the air, just an inspissating of tension. It thrummed between Mycroft and Greg like a harp string, singing quietly. Their every conversation was soft, full of eye contact and sly jokes, teasing and playing. Mycroft couldn't keep his eyes from Greg. 

Anthea was sure she was going to win the bet.

From the glances that Maguire kept giving her, Jinx was preparing herself to lose £20.

 

*

 

Sunday’s dawn broke, and Anthea rose with it. The knowledge of the luncheon today had been weighing on her since Friday morning, and history had taught her that trying to ignore it was useless.

She wrapped a light dressing gown around herself and padded quietly downstairs, blinking muzzily in the soft dawn light. She put the kettle on and yawned as it warmed, finger-combing her hair sleepily.

 

*

 

The click of the kettle was matched by the click of the side-door. Jinx strode in, wiping her hands off on a rag, and looking surprised to find Anthea there. She clearly didn't anticipate having to drive anyone somewhere today - boyish old jeans with holes that had developed over time, not been fashionably scrubbed in by the factory; a Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt, distressed over the years by paint and oil; mustard-coloured vans. She brought with her the smell of woodstain, smoke and grass.

"You're up early," she noted, moving to the sink to wash her hands. There was a skip. "Mr Holmes isn't heading to London, is he? I'll have to change. Just put another coat on the fence."

 

*

 

Anthea pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself and shook her head, embarrassed to be seen so disheveled. No makeup, hair not done in the slightest, wearing only a light vest and shorts under her dressing gown.

It had been years since anyone had seen her in such a casual state, and to be frank, she was mortified, not just embarrassed.

“No, he’s not,” she said, voice a little rough. She swallowed to try and clear her poor sleep from her throat. “As far as I am aware, Mr. Holmes plans to stay here for the duration of the day. I need to go to Winchester for lunch, but I can drive myself. I know you weren’t anticipating having to drive today.”

She poured herself a cup of tea and avoided Maguire’s eyes, well aware that she was huddling in on herself. She couldn’t bring herself to care.

_ Of course you’re up at this hour. God forbid I should have even fifteen minutes alone. _

_ What the hell could my parents possibly want? _

Anthea cupped her tea in her hands, already lost in thought again.

 

*

 

"You sure?" Jinx said, drying her hands on a teatowel. "Don't mind, if you need... s'what I'm here for..." 

Something told her this was a private visit to Winchester - and not a happy one.  _ 'I need to go'  _ was interesting. Jinx didn't remember the last time she'd  _ needed  _ to go for Sunday lunch. It didn't look as if Anthea was headed to a nice country pub for a roast and a pint, especially in bloody Winchester. 

She scooped a bowl from one of the lower cupboards, reached up for her usual box of cereal, and said,

"Who's over in Winchester?"

It was the most casual way she could think of asking,  _ and why are you dreading this?  _ She filled a bowl with cornflakes as she asked, to stop herself from gazing too long at the elegantly ruffled hair and the slightly silky dressing gown. It was true what they said. Beautiful people were the ones who made everything somehow purposeful, pristine.

Jinx fresh out of bed usually looked like she'd been hit by a bus. Anthea looked like she needed to be scooped off her feet, carried up the stairs and returned to bed immediately, not to be permitted to leave it for several long and happy hours.

 

*

 

“My parents,” Anthea said. It was toneless, but not flat. This early in the morning, that was the best she could do.

She sipped at the tea. “I’ll not be requiring your services, Maguire, though I do appreciate the offer. You have better things to be doing with your Sunday than waiting for me to finish dining with my parents.”

She smirked a little over the edge of her cup, finally glancing up. “Like staining the fence, apparently.”

_ Don’t try and convince me. I need to do this alone. _

_ I don’t want anyone to see me after I have lunch with them. _

_ This is private. _

She and Maguire had just gotten back some sort of equilibrium, and Anthea didn’t particularly want to upset that if she didn’t have to. 

She’d do it if it meant getting Maguire to leave off about this, however.

 

*

 

As Anthea finally met her eyes, Jinx's mouth curved. A quiet glitter filled her gaze.

"Needs another coat," she said. "Otherwise it's going to be all patchy and crap. Lestrade could barely keep his head on the job yesterday... too busy wandering off to make sure Mr Holmes doesn't need any more iced tea or a foot rub. Not surprised it ended up looking like we paid a monkey to do it. "

Spooning cereal into her mouth, she took a moment to chew, swallowed, then said with a smirk,

"Maybe I'll make myself scarce from the house, too. Take Mrs Collins to do a big grocery shop. See what happens if there's a bit of privacy around here."

 

*

 

Anthea’s brows arched just slightly. “Leave them with an empty house, hm? That eager to whisk me away on your bike with an ‘expensive’ £40 bottle of wine, are you?” Her tone had an edge to it that could be interpreted as light teasing… or mocking.

One had to look at the shine in her eyes to know that it was teasing. Nothing else gave it away.

 

*

 

"Well, otherwise there's a chance I have to  _ give _ you twenty quid," Jinx said, scooping up some more cereal. "And you'll only fritter it on your usual nonsense like tiny underpants. Unless they  _ somehow _ hold out until Wednesday, when things get interesting again - not that they'll manage it."

Crunching, swallowing, she added,

"What do we do if something happens on Tuesday, by the way? Do we have to give  _ them _ £20? We probably didn't work this out very well."

 

*

 

“I’ve never bought underthings for £20 in my life, tiny or otherwise,” Anthea said, amused. She sipped at her tea for a moment.

“I’m sure we’ll come up with something for Tuesday,” she said airily. “Though I highly doubt they’ll make it past today, let alone past Monday.”

She smirked a little. “We can give  _ them _ the £40 bottle of wine if they make it to Tuesday.” Hopefully Mr. Holmes would see the humour in the situation.

She was fairly certain he would; Lestrade had a very positive effect on Mr. Holmes’ sense of humour.

She smiled a little to herself with that thought. Mr. Holmes had bloomed again, and he and Lestrade hadn’t even bedded each other yet. That would be a sight to see.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

 

*

 

"You need to go to Primark," said Jinx, her eyes glinting. "Five pairs for four quid. You'll save a fucking fortune."

_ Look at you smiling again, darlin'... anyone would think you actually enjoy teasing me. _

"Ah, but if you give them the wine on Tuesday, what will we drink on Wednesday to celebrate my newly-gained twenty quid?" Jinx spooned some more cereal into her mouth. "Which I won't be getting," she added, with a flash of her eyebrows. "Because they're not going to make it that far. Frankly one of us should be upstairs now, checking if Lestrade's bed has got Lestrade in it."

 

*

 

“ _ You _ can do that,” Anthea said, setting her teacup aside and going to the fridge to begin preparing her own breakfast. 

“Mrs. Collins is going to be up soon, and if she sees me leaving Lestrade’s room looking like this - whether he’s in there or not - our wedding is back on, and frankly I haven’t the time to go dress shopping.”

She pulled out some fresh yogurt and fruit and spooned some of each into a bowl, mixing them easily.

She tossed Maguire a smirk. “Although even looking like that, she may decide to matchmake you with Lestrade. The woman is incorrigible.”

_ Scruffy, working hard… I could devour you looking like that. _

_ Peel off that shirt and those jeans, pull you into the shower. _

_ Not yet. _

She needed to look further into the background of Jessamine Maguire before she took the woman to bed.

 

*

 

"Dream on," Jinx said, transferred the last spoonful of cereal to her mouth, and washed out the bowl in the sink as she chewed. "She thinks I'm a lost cause. One of those odd Liberians she's heard about from the telly. Needs a good wash and a proper father figure..."

She dried the bowl, placed it back in the cupboard, and reached for a travel mug on the side.

Filling it with coffee, she said,

"Better finish off the rest of the fence. If I can get it dried by lunchtime, I can put another coat on this afternoon. Gives me another reason to be out of the house."

She dropped Anthea a wink.

"Enjoy Winchester," she said, as she headed for the door. "Come back in one piece."

 

*

 

In spite of herself, Anthea smiled a little at Maguire as she headed out the door. “I shall do my best. I have £20 to take off you, after all.”

When Maguire had headed back out to finish the fence, Anthea let herself take stock of how she was feeling. Interestingly, more relaxed than she had been before, though the knot of dread hadn’t shifted at all.

It was just lunch. She could do this.

She finished off her breakfast, finished her tea, and headed back upstairs to get ready for the day. 

 

* * *

 

_ I should have had Mr. Holmes create a national emergency for me, _ Anthea thought to herself as she sat in the car, hands tight on the wheel. It was five minutes to noon, she was sitting outside Brasserie Blanc, and she was about to meet her parents for lunch, a week ahead of schedule.

It was really that last part that had alarms blaring. While her monthly lunch with her parents was never  _ comfortable _ by any means, it was never an awful ordeal, either. Stilted, for the most part; despite being related by blood, they didn’t have too terribly much in common.

Her father had never been terribly pleased with her choice of career; he was very certain that being a PA was beneath her. Her mother had been more understanding, thank God. She knew that sometimes it was better to be the power behind the throne.

She would never tell either of them that her ambitions had never reached higher than Mycroft Holmes’ PA. The work was challenging, her employer was perfect, and she wanted for nothing. In short, she had found her niche, and was very happy there.

Not something either of them would understand.

Taking a deep breath, with one final glance at her makeup (perfect, classy), she slid out of the car and locked it. Her purse sat crosswise across her body, a lovely complement to her sundress and elegant heels. Dressing for this lunch had taken her nearly two hours, longer than it took her to dress for most formal events.

_ Of course, I know what to expect from formal events, _ she thought as she gave her last name to the host. She was led to a table on the upper floor, out on the balcony. Their table was perfectly situated in the shade, warm but not stifling.

Her parents were already there.

_ Joy. _

She waved off the young man and went over to join them. “Mother. Father,” she greeted, sitting down and setting her purse beside her. “You’re both looking well.”

Victor Hayes regarded his daughter over his gin and tonic. “As are you,” he conceded.

“But, dear,” Diana chimed in, “you  _ are _ looking a  _ touch _ heavy. Is everything alright?”

_ Bollocks I am. _ Anthea smiled serenely. “Perfectly, Mother. Mrs. Collins’ cooking has simply tended toward heavier fare since the household acquired Lestrade.”

Diana smiled and trilled, “Oh, I’m so glad to hear that, dear. You know how you put on weight when things aren’t going well. I’m  _ so _ glad to hear that things are going well for you, really I am. So glad to hear it.”

She was interrupted by the arrival of their waitress, who bent down to discreetly take Anthea’s drink order of prosecco.

She straightened up and smiled at the three of them. “I’m Amanda, and I’ll be taking care of you today. Are we ready to order?”

“Pea, broad bean, and red pepper salad for my daughter,” Victor said, gesturing at Anthea, “the fish soup for my wife,” to Diana, “and the grilled salmon for myself. The Scottish salmon for my daughter, hold the egg and the side, the free range chicken for my wife, and the roast pork sirloin for myself.” He handed the menus back to Amanda. “That will be all.”

To the young woman’s credit, her smile was only a little nervous. “Very good, sir.”

She turned and headed off, braid bouncing.

Anthea barely managed to restrain her eye roll.  _ It’s going to be one of THOSE lunches. Hurrah. _

She half-listened to her mother’s gossip as she stared out over the courtyard, trying to enjoy the scenery.

“--and Evangeline has just had her first grandchild, can you believe it? Guinevere went and got herself married, and, well, you didn’t hear this from  _ me _ , dear, but that was only six months ago and the baby is full term! You won’t be doing anything like  _ that _ , of course,” Diana said, patting her hand fondly.

Anthea startled a little bit. “What? No, of course not, but -”

“ _ Are _ you seeing anyone, dear? I do so hate to see you lonely, and it’s been such a long time since you had anyone to call your own,” Diana simpered.

Anthea frowned, just a little. She refrained from reminding her mother that she had  _ never _ had someone to call her own, because she did not date, and she was perfectly happy like that. “No, Mother, I’m not seeing anyone -”

Diana plowed right over her. “Oh, that is  _ such  _ a shame dear, really it is, you’re not getting any younger, you know, and the pool is shrinking! You know Virginia is seeing that nice young man, Victor, what was his name again?”

“Thomas Brooks,” Victor supplied, not looking up from his paper.

“That’s it, thank you darling, Thomas,  _ such _ a nice young man, you did always get along so well with him, Anthea dear, but Virginia has just snatched him right up -”

“Mother,” Anthea said, cutting her off, “I never  _ got along _ with Thomas, I  _ tolerated _ him. He is boring and trite and I’m sure he and Virginia get along famously. I don’t have  _ time _ to see anyone, you know that. I keep myself very busy.” 

_ So this is what happened. Damn that Gwen. Wasn’t enough to have a baby, she had to go and have a wedding on top of it. _ For the past couple of years, Diana had been sighing wistfully over bridal and baby catalogues alike, sometimes going so far as to send Anthea clippings from them.

Clippings!

“Oh, I know, dear,” Diana said soothingly, “and we’re quite proud of you.  _ Such _ a hard worker, really you are, but don’t you think you work a little  _ too _ hard, dear? You’re starting to get lines, and that’s really not attractive. You don’t want to go into your thirties alone, sweetheart, you truly don’t, it gets  _ so _ hard to find a partner at that age.”

As her mother wittered on, Anthea found it very hard not to grind her teeth in frustration.  _ Just because you and Father were set to be wed when you turned twenty-one doesn’t mean I’m over the hill. I am attractive, professional, desirable, and happy as I am. I don’t need a spouse and children to be happy. _

“- and we really do want to pass on our silver and crystal to you, sweetheart, we do, but you know it’s  _ traditional _ to do that on your wedding day and it doesn’t bother  _ us _ , of course, but it’s that Agnes, it is, she has too big of a mouth and word would spread and it might come back to  _ you _ , dear, and we just don’t want to subject you to that -”

“Oh look, our food,” Anthea interrupted, sitting up and finishing off the last of her glass. Amanda placed their appetizers in front of them with her best attempt at a cheery smile. 

“Here you are, folks,” she said. “Anything else I can get you? Another gin and tonic, another prosecco? More champagne?” Nods all around. “Great! I’ll be right back with those. Enjoy!”

Anthea marvelled at her mother, who somehow managed to talk non-stop and eat at the same time without ever speaking with her mouth full. Luckily, the non-stop speech allowed both Anthea and Victor to eat silently, providing only the briefest of responses to spur Diana on.

They managed to make it to main courses before Diana decided her monologue needed to be a conversation again. “So, dear, tell us all about what has been happening with you since we saw you last,” she said, smiling fondly at her daughter.

Anthea blinked. “Well, Mother,” she said carefully, cutting into her portion of salmon, “as you know, I’m kept quite busy by my duties. I’m afraid I really don’t have much to share with you.” As if she was going to gossip about the household drama. 

She also wasn’t about to list her recent sexual conquests, which was the other thing that kept her occupied outside of work.

“What about your watercolors, dear?” Diana asked. “You always did enjoy playing with paints as a child, and you did mention that you had taken those up again.”

_ And I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. _ Anthea smiled faintly and inclined her head. “Yes, I have. I don’t have much time to devote to it, but I’ve done a piece or two. The estate has plenty of inspiration.”

Diana smiled warmly. “Oh, I’m sure it does, I’m sure it does! If you ever want fresh inspiration, dear, you know you can always visit us, we love having you come by! I would  _ adore _ seeing your interpretation of the garden. It’s  _ so  _ lovely this time of year, and you know Angus has put in just the  _ loveliest _ water features.  _ Absolutely _ stunning, it really is. Margaret is just  _ seething _ with jealousy, you know, the poor dear, because  _ she _ can’t manage to get  _ anything _ to grow and I’ve told her, I say, Margaret, pet, you need to get a soil study done, you have to go with the soil, but does she listen? No, no, she just keeps planting what she wants to plant and she’s always so upset when they die! I have to console her, poor thing, since her husband has left her  _ again _ , terrible shame, really, but maybe if she were a  _ touch _ better as a wife he wouldn’t go off!”

Anthea’s grip tightened on her fork. Edward Lawson had always had a roving eye for younger women, and it was certainly not the fault of Margaret Lawson. She did her best with him, and seemed to love him, but he had always been a philanderer, and probably always would be. 

He had cornered her, just once, at a soiree just after her eighteenth birthday. She could still remember the feel of his hand on her hip, the smell of his breath as he leaned in. She had ducked away with some excuse or other, and he had never tried again. 

With her, anyway.

“Mother, your chicken is going to go cold,” she said smoothly.

“Oh, dear, you’re completely right, look at me, wittering away,” Diana laughed. Finally,  _ finally _ , she turned her attention to her meal, and a blessed silence fell over the table.

They finished their meal in silence, and Anthea was getting ready to leave when her father ordered coffee.

“And I’ll have today’s sorbet from Judes,” Diana chirped. “No biscuit, please.”

“Nothing for me,” Anthea said quietly, when Amanda gave her her attention.

“You sure?” Amanda asked, offering her a small smile. “We have a stracciatella ice cream today. Perfect for the weather.”

_ Fuck it. Fuck what my mother thinks. _

Anthea gave her a smile. “Alright, then. I’ll have that. Hold my biscuit, too.”

The young woman gave her a bright smile and nodded, bouncing off.

“Is that  _ really _ a good idea, dear?” Diana asked, giving her a concerned look. “I know you feel young, but you really need to be keeping an eye on your weight.”

Anthea gave her a tight smile. “I know, Mother. Please don’t worry. Lestrade has put in an exercise room that I take full advantage of.”

Diana laughed a little. “Well, maybe not  _ full _ advantage, is it, dear?”

Anthea’s smile tightened further. “Mmn. As you say, Mother.”

Diana reached over and patted her hand. “I just  _ worry  _ about you, dear, you know that, don’t you? I want you to be happy!”

“I  _ am _ happy, Mother,” Anthea said, swallowing down her exasperation.

“Well, happi _ er _ , then,” Diana said breezily. “We want you to reach your full potential - meet someone, have a family!”

“Speaking of full potential,” Victor cut in.

_ Oh God. Here we go, _ Anthea thought.

“It’s come to my attention that there are several  _ very _ desirable positions opening up in Charles’ firm. You’re more than qualified for them.”

Anthea’s lips pursed. “Father. I have told you, I am content where I am. Mr. Holmes is very good to me. My work is challenging and important. I do not wish to change jobs.”  _ Especially not to go work for your slimy brother. Hayes and Berkeley - ugh. No thank you. _

Her father gave her a stern look. “I’d like to think we raised you to strive for more than  _ content _ , Anthea. Do you truly want to be someone’s assistant for the rest of your life? You could be so much more.”

Anthea’s chin lifted, just a little. “I am indispensable to Mr. Holmes,” she said quietly. “I do not need to be more. I am enough, just as I am.”

“Of course you are, dear, of course you are,” her mother cut in soothingly. “We only want what’s best for you.”

Anthea abruptly decided she had had enough. She stood and grabbed her purse. “No,” she said simply, “you don’t. You want me to be like all the other girls: marriage, a family, settling down.” She looked at her father. “And you want me to be more than I am, aim ever higher, because ‘that’s what the Hayes do’. You don’t care if I’m happy, you just want me to have some title you can show off.”

She tossed her hair. “I am happy where I am and how I am: single, and as Mr. Holmes’ assistant. It is enough for me. It should be enough for you.”

“Anthea,” Victor said sharply, starting to rise. “Don’t speak to us like that. You -”

“Are an  _ adult _ , and have been for years.” Her eyes flashed. “Have a good afternoon Father, Mother. I will see you next month.”

She turned on her heel and strode out.

Halfway down the stairs, she met Amanda, who was coming with coffee and their desserts. “Oh, miss, I was just - are you leaving?” she asked, concerned.

Anthea gave her a tired smile. “Yes, I am.” She touched the girl’s forearm. “You have the ice cream. I’ve been called away, I’m afraid. Have a good afternoon.” And before Amanda could say anything, Anthea was gone.

She threw her purse into the passenger seat, got in the car, and headed back for the estate. Her eyes burned, but no tears fell.

They never did.

 


	34. Alleycat Chancer

Anthea arrived back at the estate at mid-afternoon. She parked the car and got out. She paused at the door to the house.

_ If Mr. Holmes and Lestrade are enjoying each other’s company… _

She had less than no desire to intrude. Instead, she decided to go round the house and sit out in the smaller garden. It was situated further from the house than the one attached to the patio, and contained only a small table and two chairs.

It was private, shaded, and beautiful. Exactly what she needed to soothe the wounds in her soul.

She took a seat and let her elbows rest on the table, head in her hands. She focused on her breathing, on the quiet sounds of insects and birds, and tried to let her parents' words wash away from her mind.

Maybe it would work this time.

 

*

 

Jinx had planned to stick with Mrs Collins up at the supermarket - read the magazines without buying one, have a crap coffee in the café, maybe head to some of the other shops nearby. The woman wouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Mr Holmes and Greg had been setting up in the exercise room just before they left, and Jinx wanted to give them time to get a little cosy. 

After reading the magazines, having a crap coffee and wandering the shops, realising there was nothing she wanted, Jinx returned to the supermarket. 

Mrs Collins had advanced a grand total of two fucking aisles. She'd then found someone from her gin club to stand and gossip with, and the two of them were stationed next to the yoghurts, nattering like they'd not seen each other in years. It was Sunday. They'd seen each other on Thursday. 

Jinx immediately wanted to shove them both into a freezer and lock it.

The supermarket was only twenty minutes from the estate. She'd come back and collect the old bat. It would be easier than trailing around this place all afternoon, trying to find something to occupy her.

"Mrs C? I've got to nip back. Mr Holmes needs a quick lift. You've got my number, right? Just give me a ring when you start going through the till, and I'll come fetch you. No, no, take your time. Yep. Yeah, hi Doris. No, that sounds fascinating. Great. Right. I'm going now, Mrs Collins. You have fun."

She turned the radio up a little too loud on the way home.  _ Old women. Christ preserve me.  _

She couldn't really go back into the house. For all she knew, Greg was just teaching Mr Holmes how to break a headlock, and there wasn't anything too interesting going on in there. All the same, she didn't want to risk it. 

_ Smoke,  _ she thought, heading around the house. She slid the packet from inside her jacket.  _ Smoke, then bike.  _ She'd have to be careful not to get crap on her uniform. Ridiculous putting it on just to take Mrs Collins up to Sainsburys, but government cars were meant to have government drivers behind the wheel. People didn't tend to believe she was a government driver when she was dressed in her civvies.

As she stepped through the rose arch into the smaller garden, she realised it was occupied - and her heart stopped.

_ Christ. _

Cigarettes in hand, tie undone around her neck, she stared at Anthea in silence from the arch. There was no pretending she hadn't seen this; she was close enough to see each deep breath.

She waited, heart pounding, trying not to think.

 

*

 

The hair on the back of Anthea’s neck prickled; a sense honed over long years of being watched shouted at her ‘ _ Someone else is here. _ ’

She swallowed hard, inhaled, and sat up. Her posture was impeccable, her composure immediately regained.

Bracing herself, she turned in her seat to see -

Maguire. Cigarettes. Tie undone, but otherwise in uniform.

_ Mrs. Collins must still be shopping, then. _

Anthea slowly rose and walked up to Maguire. She let some of her distress and frustration show in her expression, and said, “Take me away from here.”

A heartbeat. A breath. “Please.”

She took Maguire’s tie in hand, holding onto it to steady herself. “Please.”

 

*

 

Jinx searched her eyes for a long moment. Nothing crossed the driver's face; no thought made its way to the surface.

She then reached down, taking Anthea's hand.

She dropped her cigarettes, and pulled Anthea through the rose arch without a word.

There was only one helmet. Jinx fitted it onto Anthea, not hearing a word of protest. She closed the strap carefully beneath her chin, not catching a single strand of her hair, and checked it was secure. 

"You're more important," she told the visor, with a smile. Her own reflection gleamed back at her, eyes crinkled at the edges. "Arms 'round my waist. You don't need to cling - the momentum'll keep you on - but cling if you want."

The roar of the engine was the roar of Jinx's heart. It ripped through her from the ground up, a shudder that reached nerves nothing else could ever reach. Wrenching her tie from round her neck, she threw it across the garage and squeezed the clutch.

"Ready?" 

At the mute nod against her shoulder, she hit the start and wrenched the throttle.

Easy to the gates - easy on the bends through the woods, wind ruffling through her hair. The bike moved beneath Jinx like it was a part of her; Anthea was now a part of that too. Sweeping the remote from inside her jacket, Jinx hit the button and the gates started to swing.

They sped through the gap with two inches either side.

Out through the woods, afternoon sun burst free of the shade of the trees. It filled Jinx's eyes in a flood of molten gold. These country roads were like the lines on her palm; she knew them as if they were her own veins. 

She knew just where they were going.

"Alright, darlin'?" she shouted, as they wound along the hedge-lined lane that led away from everywhere.

 

*

 

Anthea nodded a little, arms wrapped tightly around Maguire’s waist. As they sped along the roads, she could feel her tension bleeding away. What she could see of the view, restricted by the visor and their speed, was gorgeous.

The adrenaline flooding through her veins made her feel freer than she had in months, maybe years. This was something new; the speed and the rush and the feeling of another body to hold onto, to share it with.

She decided she rather liked it, although possibly next time she would wear trousers. A sundress was a bit breezy for a ride like this, even though it was tucked about her legs as firmly as possible.

As the last of her tension melted away, she relaxed against Jinx’s back, settling her head against the other woman’s shoulder blade. Her eyes closed, and she smiled a little to herself. 

It felt better than she could have ever imagined to let someone else lead, someone else make the decisions. She didn’t know where they were going, and she didn’t care.

It wasn’t her decision to make, and that felt amazing.

 

*

 

Jinx took the long route over the hills. She had the feeling this wasn't about going somewhere; it was about  _ going.  _ She'd driven away from things before, plenty of them - too many - and it always took at least half an hour to lose them in the tailwind. 

After that, you could breathe again; breathe, and see the world a little more like it was.

She drove easy until she felt the arms around her waist start to trust her. There was no one place she increased the speed, no bend that she swung with specific purpose, but she let it grow minute by minute until they were flying. The sun would be up for hours yet, low and easy in the sky. They had time. 

At last, nearly an hour out of the estate, and without a main road or a building sight, she took them up a winding road through woodland. It was a climb, but the bike did her proud. Slowing, she finally coasted to a halt in the leaf litter at the side of the track, with no apparent reason to stop at all. 

As the engine died, the sounds of the world appeared again around them - forest birds and evening air. Everything was perfectly quiet. They were miles from anywhere, and nothing would find them here.

Jinx pushed her hands back through her hair. She swung off the bike, turned to her passenger, and gently offered out her arms.

"Easy," she murmured. "You'll have sea-legs for a minute..." She slid her hands gently beneath Anthea's forearms, took a grip on her elbows and helped her down, heart beating quietly in her throat. 

_ Most beautiful person I've ever had on this bike,  _ she thought. Little sundress, high heels. Legs that any man would throw himself into traffic for.  _ What're you doing here with me, posh girl? You're better than the likes of me... _

_ Doesn't matter for a while,  _ Jinx thought. 

_ Nothing does. _

"S'get this off you," she said, stepped close, and carefully reached for the chin strap of the helmet. Her fingers were utterly gentle as she undid it. "Don't let me hurt you."

 

*

 

Anthea gasped softly and held onto Jinx’s waist as her knees wobbled under her.

_ Careful. Steady. _

Her chin lifted automatically as the helmet came off. She blinked rapidly and squinted a little, then turned her face to her shoulder as her eyes adjusted in the sun.

“Thank you,” she murmured. It was quiet and sincere.

She hadn’t stepped back. It occurred to her that she probably should have.

She didn’t care about ‘should’ right now, out here. They were miles and miles from anywhere. Anthea’s duties and responsibilities were far away, and it wasn’t about ‘should’ here.

It was about ‘want’.

Want without thought. Without planning. Without worry. Just want.

It was freeing. And terrifying.

And for the first time in a long time, Anthea didn’t know what to do. She turned her face back to Jinx’s, searching and uncertain.

_ Show me. Help me. Guide me. _

_ I don’t know what I’m doing. _

_ Please. _

 

*

 

Jinx smiled - gentle, easy and honest. 

She hooked the helmet over the handlebars of the bike, left it swinging there, and took Anthea's hand.

"C'mon," she said. "It's not far."

There was a break in the trees about a minute from the road. Beyond the edge of the forest, the hills laid like a patchwork blanket in the light of the settling sun, gold and green and soft to the eye. They were on the highest peak for some distance now - the rest of the world was just a little lower, and the sky just a little closer. Jinx led Anthea without a word through the trees, their hands wrapped tight, as easy as if they came here every night.

Just out of the woods, they reached a field where the grass was ankle-high and deep, rich green - the sort of grass that didn't exist in a city. It muffled their footsteps as they walked, and Jinx guided the way to an oak tree standing proud on the hillside. 

As they slipped beneath it, the sunlight dappled across their skin. 

Jinx removed her jacket at once.  _ I'll be the gentleman, darlin'.  _ She laid it on the ground on a soft patch, arranged it with care then sat down, pulling Anthea gently to sit on the jacket.

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, with quiet care, Jinx eased herself back into the grass. 

_ Lie down, princess. I've got you.  _

_ Nobody'll know. _

 

*

 

Anthea took a deep breath, slipped off her shoes, and settled back, curling against Jinx’s side.

_ Don’t think. Just be. _

Her ear came to rest over Jinx’s heart, and she closed her eyes, allowing the quiet, steady sound to relax her further.

Without a conscious thought, Anthea’s arm slipped over Jinx’s waist, holding her close. It had been far too long since she had just - held someone. No plans, no machinations, nothing.

Just contact. Solidity and quietude.

She was certain Jinx could feel her heartbeat, rapid as it was and pressed as close as they were. It didn’t matter.

Inhale. Exhale. 

The scent of the air around them mingled with the smell of the woman under her - motorbike and a little earth and her shower products - and it was perfect.

The sun was warm, her feet were bare, and she was lying in the grass wrapped around a pretty woman. She had flown on a motorbike and run from her responsibilities.

If it hadn’t been for the disastrous lunch earlier, Anthea could almost believe it was a dream.

_ No. Don’t think about that. Breathe. _

Unbidden, her hold tightened and she burrowed closer, pressing her face a little more firmly into the fabric of Jinx’s shirt. She controlled her breathing, but couldn’t stop her minute shaking.

_ Dammit. _

 

*

 

Jinx's arm wrapped tighter, brought Anthea close, and held her there. 

"S'alright," she whispered, her voice as soft as the stirring leaves above. "It's all alright." 

Her other hand laid on Anthea's waist, closing the circle. It was a gentle, quiet touch; she knew how most people touched Anthea. She knew what would be going through their minds. Some of it was now going through hers.

But she didn't want it to feel like that. 

This wasn't about that. 

Pressing her face to the top of Anthea's head, Jinx let her eyes fall shut. 

_ Fuck whoever's hurt you.  _ The things people did only hurt if you loved them. It meant Anthea loved someone. They didn't know it. 

They couldn't possibly know. 

Anyone who understood how special that made them wouldn't be capable of doing this to her.

Jinx took a moment to find the words.

"Life's crap," she whispered at last. She brushed her nose through the soft brown curls, stroking her thumb over Anthea's shoulder. "You'll think you've seen the worst that people can do... then they'll find something brand new to show you."

She breathed in, slowly, reeling with the scent of Anthea's hair.

"It's fine, princess," she murmured. "Just the way things are. Have to cope however you can."

_ Christ, I'd be proud of you. _

_ Never stop talking about you.  _

_ Show people pictures of you. Carry them around on my phone... hundreds of them. Folders of them. _

_ 'Look. Just look at her. Stop what you're doing, and look at her.' _

_ 'With some alleycat chancer like me.' _

 

*

 

Anthea swallowed hard and let the words sink into her skin. 

_ ‘It’s fine, princess.’ _

_ ‘Just the way things are.’ _

And when Jinx said it, Anthea could believe it. To know that someone else felt as she did - that she was fine, just as she was, that she didn’t need to change how she was or what she did - was wonderful beyond words.

The shakes running through her increased, and her heart lurched into her throat. Tears burned behind her eyelids, and refused to fall. There were words that wanted to come out, but they piled up at the back of her mouth in a jumble, and she knew that if she spoke, she would never make sense.

So instead she curled close. One leg wound between Jinx’s, her arms tightened, and she nuzzled in as if she could press them into one being by sheer force of will.

She hoped Jinx understood how special this was. How rare it was. How grateful she was.

Because Anthea wasn’t sure she could articulate it, even when she got her powers of speech back.

_ Thank you. _

 

*

 

Jinx stroked back a little of Anthea's hair. She wanted to place a kiss on her forehead - just one - but it felt like a step too far. Everyone knew what a kiss meant. You couldn't go back from a kiss; it ended all the old and started something new. She didn't know if Anthea needed something new right now. 

_ Probably the last thing you need, darlin'. _

Instead, she spoke softly against her hair.

"M'not going to say another word, alright? Take your time. When you want to go back, give me a nudge... only when you want, though."

She let her eyes close; speckles of sunshine stirred across them, moving like water.

"Nobody's waiting for us," she murmured. "And if they are, they can keep on waiting... won't kill them. Nobody in the whole world knows you're here."

_ Just me, darlin'. _

"It'll be alright," she said, and nothing more.

The breeze brushed its fingers over the oak tree, shivering through the leaves as the silence settled around them.

The sun began to fall.

 


	35. Self-Defence

For Greg, Sunday afternoon had started with a shower (new shower curtain courtesy of Anthea, and a new hook and eye latch on the door courtesy of himself) and changing into loose exercise clothing. Nutritious lunch, and then warm-up stretches in the exercise room, which he had rearranged to better accommodate the training he’d be putting Mycroft through.

He grinned at himself in the mirror as he went through his stretches. _Mycroft._ He still hadn’t tired of saying the man’s name out loud, allowing himself to think about his boss in a less formal manner.

_And now you’re going to have your hands all over him._

_And his hands will be all over you._

_Gonna be a hell of a challenge, Lestrade. Keep it together._

He rolled his neck and made a pleased noise as he felt it pop. When he felt loose-limbed and limber, he went on a hunt for the man in question. He knew Mycroft was up and about, it was simply a matter of finding him.

 

*

 

Mycroft was finally located leaving his bedroom, looking almost timidly casual in the loosest clothing he owned. As per Greg's instructions, he'd opted for garments that allowed ease of movement. His usual exercise leggings were a little snug - and the thought of Greg getting hold of him while wrapped in lycra was a little too blush-inducing - and so he'd gone for a pair of wide-legged cotton trousers instead, along with a mid-grey zip top. The lack of tailoring made him feel terribly shy.

He couldn't quite suppress the thought that this would be a little silly. _Self-defence._ As if he would soon be karate-chopping an assailant in the windpipe, and casting them down the stairs. The chance of him ever _needing_ these particular skills was microscopic - and in the unlikely eventuality that he did, Greg would be on hand to deal with the ruffian anyway.

 _Still,_ he thought.

The opportunity to spend the afternoon in physical contact with Greg was not to be brushed aside.

The last few days had been almost blissfully enjoyable. It was rather hard to keep his thoughts and his eyes off Greg. His bodyguard seemed to be troubled by neither, which made it all the harder to restrain himself.

This afternoon's session would have to be approached with some care, if he was to prevent himself from putting Greg into an awkward position.

_Then... if he wishes to place ME into an - ..._

_For God's sake, man. Do be a grown-up._

As he left his bedroom, a little nervous and excited in his argyle-print socks, he found Greg approaching along the corridor.

An immediate smile arose.

"You've come to fetch me, have you?" he said, closing his bedroom door with a smirk. "Is this the first test, and I'm to attempt to fend you off?"

 

*

 

Greg smirked and arched a brow. “Only if you want it to be,” he said, spreading his arms wide before putting his hands on his hips.

“Alright, young grasshopper. First lesson: what do you do if you see someone threatening coming at you?” he asked.

This would be a good way to check Mycroft’s instincts, and to see if he remembered what Greg had told him about what he had already taught the girls.

Run, and if you can’t run, hurt them enough to run, then run.

 

*

 

Still standing against his bedroom door, feeling rather pleasantly cornered, Mycroft resisted the urge to smile.

"I point at them," he said, bright-eyed, "and I shout, _'Get them Lestrade!'"_

 

*

 

Greg bent in half and laughed, grinning broadly. “Okay, fair enough,” he said, straightening up and still grinning. “And if your very handsome protector has been somehow incapacitated? Hypothetically speaking. Obviously I’m far too good at my job to be _actually_ incapacitated.”

That was mostly true, too; his calf twinged as he thought about the time he had been shot in the leg getting some foreign princess to safety. Small caliber, self-removal, since medical assistance had been thin on the ground at the time.

His supervisor had torn him a new one for taking another assignment directly after, and neglecting to _tell_ anyone he had been shot.

Greg smirked. “Maybe someone’s knocked me on the head or something. Use your imagination.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes shone at _'very handsome';_ it was almost impossible to suppress the thumping of his heart in response. He wondered if the man genuinely understood how attractive he was.

"If you were incapacitated," Mycroft said, regarding Greg with something awfully close to mischief, "I would of course be too distraught to tend to my own safety. I would be fully occupied in kneeling over you in horror, clenching my fists in my hair, and swearing vengeance to the gods at all moral cost."

Supposing he wouldn't be permitted to leave his door without a proper answer, he added, dark-eyed,

"I imagine some sort of counter-threat would be first on the agenda. Throwing something? I'm not sure, Greg. This is your division. I'm a government advisor. It rarely dissolves into actual fisticuffs."

 

*

 

Greg smirked a little. “Don’t lie to me, I’ve seen brawls go down in the House of Lords before.”

He took one step forward. “Counter-threat is a good guess, but not… quite right.”

Another step forward. They were chest to chest. Greg put his hands on either side of Mycroft, bracketing his body in.

“Run,” he murmured in the man’s ear. A hint of a bass growl reverberated in his voice.

“Above all else, you _run_. You hear me?”

 

*

 

Mycroft couldn't imagine anything he'd less like to do in this moment than run.

Staying precisely where he was was far higher in his priorities.

Quite certain the anxious thudding of his heart would be heard, he took a moment to settle his breath. Greg was _there_ \- just there - just a turned head away. He could feel Greg's breath against the side of his neck, just beneath the collar of his top.

"And - if I find myself cornered?" he enquired, his voice faint.

He wanted to place his hands on the man's shoulders - lean into his body - feel him come closer.

_God help me._

 

*

 

“Hurt them and run,” Greg said, pulling away with a dark, devilish mischief in his eyes.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly, the biggest challenge for you is going to be unlearning decades of society and centuries of evolution telling you not to kick a guy in the family jewels.” He folded his arms over his chest. “It hurts like a motherfucker, and that’s why you need to do it. Works on women, too, although not as well - it’s more the surprise factor than anything.”

He gestured with his chin. “Come on. Let’s head downstairs and I’ll show you some other good spots to aim for.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes flashed with delight and reproach at once, his mouth twisting. As they moved downstairs together, he said,

"Do remind me to monitor this rising tendency of yours towards profanity. I fear it's only a matter of time before you catch your hand in a door and unleash something unforgivable in front of the chancellor."

He glanced at Greg sideways, amused.

"I don't think anyone has dared to utter the word 'motherfucker' in front of me since 1997."

 

*

 

“If he tells one more story about his poodle, I’ll say something unforgivable anyway, door or no door,” Greg said, amused, as he ushered Mycroft into the exercise room.

“And if you can find me a better phrase than ‘hurts like a motherfucker’ to describe being kicked in the business,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I’ll be sure to start employing that instead. Until then, ‘motherfucker’ it is.”

He grinned impishly. “Besides, if no one’s said it in front of you for over a decade, I’ve got some catching up to do, haven’t I? Get you used to it, because you’ll want some profanity at the ready for when I’ve put you on your back for the fifth time in a row.” His eyes glittered as he said it.

 

*

 

_Well._

Mycroft had a feeling tonight's nocturnal daydreams had just been decided for him.

"I hate to tell you," he said, in an effort to distract himself from blushing into a stupor and passing out, "but 1997 was now _two_ decades ago, I'm afraid. The years do fly. I'll furthermore warn you that I expect to be put on my back only gently, and with sufficient respect for the four-and-a-half decades of service it's now given to the British nation. If you're intending simply to rugby-tackle me to the ground over and over until I learn, I shall not be pleased."

 

*

 

Greg scruffed a hand through his hair. “Shit, it _was_ two decades ago. Jesus Christ I’m getting old.”

He grinned at Mycroft. “No need to worry, I’ll give your back all the respect it’s due.” He managed not to wink. Barely.

“Here. I’ve already stretched and loosened up, but I need to get you limber, or you’ll end up sore no matter how gently I put you on your back.”

_Subtle, Lestrade. Very subtle._

He swallowed a little. “Just follow my motions. I’ll correct you if need be.” He began going through his stretches from before, slowly enough that Mycroft could follow along.

 

*

 

Mycroft managed to mirror Greg for three positions before the smirk began. It grew, slowly, as the stretches became more advanced and more in-depth. By the time they reached lunging, Mycroft could no longer contain himself.

"This is unnecessary," he said, trying his hardest not to be amused. This was physical fitness. It was entirely sensible. For some reason, he couldn't entirely cope with the thought that Lestrade was now encouraging him to perform lunges. It all seemed so delightfully pointless that it became rather funny. "And when someone threatening is coming towards me, I'm to ask if they'll wait just a moment for me to run through my lunges, am I?"

 

*

 

Greg arched a brow and paused. “Unnecessary, huh?” He sniffed a little and thumbed at his nose. “Alright. We don’t have to complete them.”

He stepped closer, waited for Mycroft to straighten up, then spun and knocked his legs out from under him with a low ankle sweep, putting the man solidly on his back with a _thud_.

He crouched down with an easy, if slightly evil smile. “But you’ll regret it in the morning, I promise. Who’s the professional here?”

 

*

 

_"Ah - ...!"_

The floor came as a shock.

The thud of the training mat beneath Mycroft's back short-circuited his senses for a few seconds. When he looked up again, he found Greg crouching over him with a far more malevolent smile than he was used to.

He hesitated, cured at once of his nervous humour. Something a little cold - a little strange - passed through the pit of his stomach.

Their first ever disagreement returned to his mind in a flash. The sudden knife - arms around him - the irrational feeling that it was worse, somehow, for it to be Lestrade with the knife rather than an assailant.

_A man of demonstration._

_Takes his profession seriously. That is all._

_My - fault for -_

Shifting back and away, Mycroft gathered himself to his feet. He quietly brushed his clothing down, a great deal more wary in his stance.

Trying to remind himself that this wasn't actually a scheduled session to flirt and touch, and that Lestrade had a job to do, Mycroft pulled nervously at the hem of his zip-top and waited for instruction.

 

*

 

_There we go._

Greg hated, a little bit, to do it to Mycroft; finding oneself suddenly on the floor wasn’t a fun experience at the best of times.

But there _was_ a purpose to this, and he hadn’t been joking: self-defence training would leave Mycroft sore, more so if he neglected to stretch properly.

So Greg led him through the last of the stretches and shifted his weight. “Alright. Today, we’ll focus on breaking holds. We’ll start easy: breaking a wrist hold.”

He held out his hand as if to offer a handshake. “Go ahead and grab my wrist.” He smiled softly, disarmingly. “Promise not to put you on your back or hurt you in any way. I’ll just be breaking the hold and stepping back. Doesn’t hurt a bit.”

 

*

 

Mycroft followed the stretches without a sound, his eyes trained on the movements rather than the man behind them. His heart was still beating in his throat. He felt like he'd left it lying there on the crashmat, beating to itself in mute distress. His spirits had dropped even faster and harder than his body. He had a feeling he'd misread something, badly.

As Greg held out a hand, he instinctively stepped back from it. Mycroft's stomach tightened at the force of his own response.

_'Doesn't hurt a bit.'_

This wasn't what he'd anticipated. Guilt prickled beneath Mycroft's skin as he realised what he _had_ been thinking as he left his room.

_God almighty... an excuse. An excuse to... to feel -_

Of course Lestrade had instead dumped him on his arse for cheek. The man was a professional, trying to do his job, and Mycroft had flounced down here in hope of...

_Christ, what am I doing?_

He stared down at his bodyguard's hand, his own drawn back and nervous.

_I don't want - pain - him -_

Mycroft's throat squeezed. Suddenly he was sitting in a conservatory chair again, feeling arms lash around him and then a blade, panic that metal was about to swipe through his skin. A voice breathing to him, _dead._

Lestrade's voice.

It had been their first touch. Their first embrace. It had been the first time someone had touched Mycroft in years, and he could still feel the blade against his neck.

Today was their first touching since he'd realised Lestrade was gay. He'd envisioned - _... God help me._

_I can't do this._

Mycroft's fingers curled into his palm, his cheeks paling.

"I..." It took a second for words to come. His eyes shuttered. "I'm - not going to be attacked. This isn't - "

He took an uneasy step back off the crash-mat, suddenly desperate to be alone. He could still see that slightly evil smile. Glancing into his face the memory was there, overlaying his features, and it frightened Mycroft in ways he didn't quite understand.

"And if I am attacked, I'll - accept my fate, Lestrade. I'm forty-six." His eyes closed for a second. "I'm not - going to be able to - ... this is a waste of your time."

_Oh, god._

That awful grin. _I have to leave._

"Excuse me," he said, his voice tight, and reached for the door.

 

*

 

_Lestrade._

_You’re calling me Lestrade again._

Something had quite clearly gone wrong, and Greg wasn’t sure exactly what it was.

He was damn sure he was going to try to fix it, though.

“Hey,” he said softly. He didn’t make a move to follow Mycroft - he let the man have his space.

“If you don’t want to do this - can’t do this, that’s fine. I understand.” And he did.

“This isn’t a waste of my time, Mycroft,” he said quietly, praying to God that he wasn’t about to get reprimanded for being too casual. “Spending time with you isn’t - won’t ever be a waste of my time, whatever we’re doing. We don’t have to do this. We can do whatever you want.”

He inhaled, then exhaled softly. He still hadn’t moved. “If you need some space from me, okay. Whatever you need from me, I’ll give. Whatever will make you okay.”

_Because you’re not okay, and it’s my fault._

_God, please just let me make this okay._

 

*

 

Mycroft stopped in the door, caught by the sudden softness of Greg's voice. His heart lurched uncomfortably behind his ribs - he felt almost faint. He was completely silent as Greg spoke, turning nervously but not meeting his eyes, wishing he could stop the small and cold prickles from skittering up and down his arms.

In the end, he risked a glance into Greg's gaze.

It speared him into place; his expression opened with distress and embarrassment, the last of his colour leaving him.

"Forgive me," he managed. "I..."

_God almighty, this is mortifying._

"N-Not - accustomed to - "

_It is you. It's you. I want to touch you. I don't want to fear you._

" - and - s-some unexpected situations during fieldwork. Unsettling memories. Rather glad to leave them behind. And - frankly, Lestrade, if _you_ are incapacitated - hardly rate my chances much above zero - training or no training - "

_Reprehensible of me. Expecting this to be..._

_Am I really so touch-starved?_

"I a-apologise for wasting your time. Not my intention."

 

*

 

_Unsettling memories._

_I know all about that, gorgeous._

The skin around Greg’s eyes tightened minutely as he batted away his own memories.

_Focus. This is about Mycroft._

“It’s okay,” he said soothingly. He chanced a slow, small step forward, hands open and at his sides in a non-threatening gesture.

“I told you. It’s not a waste of my time,” he repeated gently. “I’m sorry I pushed you, and dumped you on your rear without warning. I was treating you like one of the girls, and I shouldn’t have. I should have known better, and I’m sorry.” He kept his tone low and even, head slightly bowed so he was looking up through his lashes.

 _Slowly._ Like approaching a spooked horse, as likely to run as to lash out.

_Let me make this better._

“You don’t need to be scared of me, Mycroft,” he murmured. “I’d never hurt you. Not ever. Lay down my life for you if I needed to.” Another tiny step forward, staying out of reach of the other man so that he didn’t feel trapped or cornered.

“If you’re comfortable with it,” he offered, open and trusting, “I’d like to touch you before you go collect your thoughts. So you hitting the mat isn’t the last contact you have from me. Can’t wipe it away - but maybe replace it, a little?”

When he had - gotten away from the situation that had caused his memories, Melody had done that for him. Whenever he spooked or lashed out, she’d give him small, gentle touches to bring him back to Earth. Painting over his wounds with love, she’d called it.

It had helped.

He hoped it would help Mycroft, too.

 

*

 

_Oh, god._

_No - for God's sake - leave the man be. You exploit him enough for your own warped needs._

Mycroft's chest rose and fell slowly, deeply, watching Greg with equal measures of concern and desperation. He wasn't aware that he'd backed himself against the door. He couldn't bring himself to leave, and yet the distress still jittered beneath the surface of his skin.

_But he's offering._

_He's offering to -_

_To what, precisely?_

Swallowing, Mycroft realised what hopeful image had flooded his head at once - Greg's arms sliding around him, hugging him - those magnificent shoulders, the broad chest, gentle hands that gathered and supported and protected. The immediate sting of emotional response was sharp and hot through his veins. _God help me, I don't need to be protected. I'm not going to be assassinated. Nobody has attacked me, not in years - nobody except -_

_Except Greg._

Expression aching, Mycroft said in a quiet voice,

"Touch me how?"

He didn't move to leave.

 

*

 

“Whatever you need,” Greg said gently. “I mean it.”

_Anything, gorgeous._

_Whatever you need._

_Let me make this better._

He raised his arms slightly, hands still loose and open.

_Jesus._

Go for humour. Just a little - just enough to lighten the mood. Take some of that awful distress out of the lines of Mycroft’s face, out of the angle of his body.

He could only hope he didn’t misjudge this.

Taking a breath, he gave Mycroft a small smile, raising his brows just a bit. “You look like you could use a hug, if I’m being honest. I picked up a pack down at the store earlier, so I could give you one. If you wanted.”

_Let me in, gorgeous. Let me make this right._

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart-rate eased a little.

They'd hugged before. He still remembered standing outside the hospital, cradling Greg in his arms for long minutes as he cried with panic for his nieces. It had made things better, just to touch. There was comfort and relief in touch than would take many, many words to gather otherwise.

And so - still a little guarded - Mycroft took a breath. He stepped away from the door.

Carefully, still half-expecting to be tossed onto his back again and told never to trust an attacker, he placed his arms around Greg's shoulders. He shook a little as he did, closing his eyes.

It was some time before he spoke.

"Please do not injure me." The words came quietly; they were hidden against Greg's shoulder, for him alone to hear. "Poorly treated at school. I will learn. I will try. I respect your profession. S-Some degree of trust required, first... well aware you could harm me if you wished."

He hesitated, hardly daring to say it.

"I'd like to think you wouldn't."

 

*

 

Greg’s heart clenched in his chest. He wasn’t sure it would ever unwind at this point.

_Jesus, gorgeous. I’m so sorry._

_You don’t ever have to be afraid of me._

“‘Course I wouldn’t,” he murmured softly, holding Mycroft close. His grip was solid, but not restricting. “Not ever. I promise.”

One hand began rubbing gently, tracing a soothing path over Mycroft’s shoulders and upper back. Steady and calm.

_Breathe with me, gorgeous. I’ve got you._

_It’ll be alright._

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Should’ve known better…” He swallowed a little and inhaled, bracing himself.

_Tell him. He needs to know he can trust you. That you won’t hurt him._

“I… know a thing or two about being hurt by someone you trust.” His heart pounded in his ears, and he couldn’t continue for a moment. _Don’t think about it. Keep going. Say something._

“So. ‘M sorry. You don’t have to learn. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

 

*

 

"You have - p-perhaps a greater capacity for playfulness than I do." In a braver mood, Mycroft might have smiled. He recalled Greg and Maguire having their water-fight around the car, and the joyful rough-housing Greg shared so freely with his nieces. Mycroft had never been permitted to rough-house as a child. He'd never learned. Human touch came in the form of attacks or making love, never play.

"Forgive me," he murmured, embarrassment now darkening his cheeks. "I - trust you very, very much. I'd never wish you to think that I doubt you. Never. I'm just..."

_In love with you._

_Desperately._

Mycroft closed his eyes. "... bookish," he finished, weakly. "An easy target, perhaps. Character-building, but - w-with you, I..."

_Am also in love._

_God help me._

"I'd like to learn," he said, tentatively. He wondered who could have been in the position to receive Greg's trust, and yet chosen to hurt him. It was unthinkable. Mycroft breathed in, slowly, and told himself he should possibly have let go by now. "Without bringing us both to a blush, Greg... 'be gentle with me'."

 

*

 

Greg couldn’t help the small, amused snort anymore than he could help tightening the embrace a little.

_There we are, gorgeous. There’s my name._

“Don’t worry, Mycroft,” he said, a smile coloring his voice. “I’ll go easy on you.”

Refusing to listen to commands from his brain, his head moved a little against Mycroft’s shoulder in what could really only be described as ‘a nuzzle’.

“I promise. You’re safe with me.”

He pulled back, just enough to look into Mycroft’s eyes.

_Goddammit, stop, you’ve freaked him out enough already -_

His hand came up and cupped the man’s jaw gently.

_No no no no no!_

“Whoever told you that being hurt builds character is wrong,” he said gently, firmly. “Being hurt doesn’t build character. It just sucks. I won’t ever do that to you. I promise.”

_Jesus. Jesus. Jesus._

So close. It would take a movement of only a few centimeters to bring them together - press their lips together -

Greg didn’t move one way or the other.

_Let him decide._

The world stood still.

 

*

 

_Oh god._

As Greg's hand cupped his jaw, Mycroft's eyes flickered with a rush of longing he could barely conceal. His breath vanished at once. He held perfectly still, gazing at Greg, listening to him, his heart now beating so deeply it seemed to be trying to make its way to Greg's through the front of his chest.

His eyes came to linger on Greg's lips. He swallowed, shook slightly, then looked back into his eyes.

Mycroft's expression ached.

_Oh god, all this time._

_Oh - god, we can't - t_ _he position it would put him in - his security -_

_My employee -_

He couldn't cope any longer. Greg was cupping his jaw, looking into his face as if he were everything. _Surely. Surely he... oh god, if I'm wrong... oh god, if I'm RIGHT..._

Mycroft couldn't bear it. He closed his eyes, as his throat squeezed.

"Greg," he whispered. He sounded almost tired; weakness wracked his features. "Greg, I - I have to tell you - I - I think I've..."

 

*

 

It was the swift glance at his lips that did Greg in.

_Fuck it._

_You only regret what you didn’t do in life._

_And I know I’m right about this._

“Hold that thought for just a moment,” he murmured.

He leaned in.

Their lips met.

The world ended, and it was beautiful.

 


	36. Monumental

Mycroft’s last word was a whispered,  _ "Oh..." _

He felt his heart crack apart inside his chest. As his held breath rushed from his nose, it brought with it a sound that was almost a whimper. He shook, lifting his fingers in shy terror to Greg's jaw, realising in an overwhelming flood of joy and panic that this was truly happening. 

_ Oh god.  _

Greg’s mouth was soft - warm - Mycroft died over and over with each tiny, gentle motion, each little brush of their lips, each realisation that Greg wanted this as much as him. 

_ Oh Christ, I’m in love with you. I need you.  _

_ Oh - oh god, you want me too -  _

What gentle meld of pull and push brought Mycroft's back against the door, he'd never know. He didn't care. He cradled Greg's jaw, gasping with soft shock into his mouth as his heart pounded out of control in his chest. 

"Oh god..." he whimpered, the words blurred between their mouths. "Oh god,  _ kiss me - " _

 

*

 

“What d’you think I'm doing?” Greg breathed, amused. The hand on Mycroft’s jaw slid back, moving to the back of his neck for leverage. His other hand moved down, resting on the man’s waist and holding gently.

He pushed forward just slightly and deepened the kiss, threading his fingers through soft strands of auburn hair as he did so. Heat flooded through him with every whispered word from the other man, every small noise. 

_ Christ. _

Nothing had ever felt as good as this did - he had never wanted anything more in his life. And now he had it, and it was better than he could have ever imagined. 

He didn’t want to stop. Who needed oxygen, anyway?

 

*

 

Mycroft trembled as the kiss deepened. He let his lips part nervously, trying to remember in fragile desperation how this went, his heart tightening at the first quiet touch of their tongues. Memory had deserted him; there was only instinct left. He found his hands moving to Greg's chest by their own volition, just wanting to touch him - to feel at last this chest he'd longed to place his hands on. 

Months now. Months of dreaming. 

_ 'Gorgeous.' _

_ Perhaps I’m dreaming.  _

_ Oh god, I have to know...  _

When the breath came - a pause, a quiet space between them - Mycroft wasn’t surprised to find his pulse a little out of rhythm. He kept his eyes closed, not daring to open them. 

He shook within Greg's arms. 

"What have we done?" he whispered. 

 

*

 

“Something that’s probably a bit daft,” Greg said easily, voice low and comfortable. He kept his hands where they were, nails scratching softly at Mycroft’s scalp on instinct while the other traced soothing circles on his hip.

God, how long had he wanted to do this? Just take the man in his arms, just like this. Just hold him.

“No regrets, though.”  _ God, none at all. _

_ Unless - _

_ Unless - _

“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly, gently. His heart pounded in his chest, and he braced himself, just in case.

 

*

 

Mycroft audibly swallowed. 

"No," he whispered. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life. "No, I... I couldn’t have - "

_ Courage. Courage - say it. _

_ Bring it into the light.  _

"I-In truth, I’ve..." He shivered, closing his hands quietly in Greg’s shirt. "You. F-For some time."

He paused, biting his lip. Tentatively, he opened his eyes. 

_ "Quite _ some time, Greg."

 

*

 

_ God, gorgeous. Too cute.  _

Greg smiled warmly, his eyes crinkling with it. His heart unwound itself a little, and tension bled from his shoulders, tension he hadn’t even realized he had been carrying.

_ Truth, then. _

_ Out with it. _

“Glad I’m not the only one,” he said, bringing his hand forward to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you,” he admitted softly, still smiling. His thumb rubbed back and forth over the edge of Mycroft’s collarbone idly. “Didn’t think you’d ever go for a bloke like me, though. You’re - a bit out of my league.”

_ Just a bit. Miles and miles out of my league. _

_ Doesn’t matter. _

_ You want me. I want you. That’s all that’s important here. _

 

*

 

_ Oh, Jesus. _

That moment - a stranger's office - a man who rose from his chair to shake Mycroft's hand.  _ Greg Lestrade, at your service, Mr Holmes.  _ Mycroft wouldn't ever forget that moment.

He wouldn't forget this one, either.

Shaking quietly, gazing with disbelief into those big brown eyes, Mycroft drew a long breath. Worry tightened his features.

"This - complicates - "

If Greg ever wanted to leave - if it became common knowledge among Mycroft's peers that he'd taken advantage of his staff - if the rest of the house found out... 

Mycroft's eyes closed, his shake deepening into his bones. 

_ I do not care.  _

"I barely ever stop thinking about you," he whispered, breaking apart. He drove his fingers through Greg's hair, his throat squeezing tight, his eyes still closed in desperation. "I - I can't remember when last I... oh, god. We can't - l-let it be found out that - "

He could feel his face flushing, his whole body trembling finely at Greg's mere proximity - close enough to kiss, close enough to touch.

His fingers tightened in Greg's hair.

"What do you want from me?" he begged.

 

*

 

_ Jesus, gorgeous. _

_ Easy. It’ll all be fine. _

“Everything you’ll give me,” Greg said gently. He leaned in and nosed along Mycroft’s jaw, humming softly as he pressed their bodies together.

_ Gentle. Careful. _

“I’d say I want to spend time with you… but we already do,” he murmured. “And - you’re right, we can’t be obvious about this, but… I’m sure we can steal a few moments here and there. For this.” 

He placed a gentle kiss on Mycroft’s cheek. “For us.”

Pulling back just a little, he searched Mycroft’s face. “What do you want, gorgeous? From me? From this?”

_ Tell me. _

_ Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you. _

_ Anything. _

 

*

 

Mycroft's breath shallowed as Greg nosed along his jaw. His entire body seemed to soften, pleasure and anticipation flaring hotly along his neck, out through his shoulders, curling deliciously behind his ear. He sunk his teeth into his lower lip, fighting his instinctive sounds. Greg's voice was almost molten. It breathed away his every worry for a moment; it was like having his soul called to the surface.

As Greg searched his face, the colour in his face settled into two distinct spots, high in his cheeks. His eyes were all pupil - the thinnest rim of deep blue-grey - and his chest rose deeply with his breath.

It took him a moment to produce the words.

"I - don't know," he whispered, his heart straining. "I'd not anticipated a-anything like this again in my life..." He carded his fingers through Greg's hair; the tiniest, faintest hint of a smile graced his lips. "I'm v-very fond of you. I'd... like to explore that."

Hesitating, he added,

"I r-realise this puts you in a difficult position..."

 

*

 

Greg scoffed a little, smiling a bit. “Not anymore than it does you,” he said. “It’s fine. A bit of extra incentive to keep you safe, that’s all.”

An easy, wider smile. “Not that I really needed it.”

He squeezed Mycroft’s shoulder gently. “ _ I  _ kissed  _ you _ , remember? Don’t fret about this. I’m an adult. I’m making my choice. And I choose you. Whatever that means. Okay?”

_ Let me have this. _

_ Let me have you. _

_ Please don’t push me away for my own good. _

_ Let me decide this. _

_ Please. _

 

*

 

"Dear Christ..." Mycroft whispered, almost to himself. He could feel his heart growing larger and larger by the moment, aching with the words being said to him. He couldn't believe it. 

His gaze flickered to Greg's lips again, his blush deepening. 

"I'm seduced then, am I?" he said, his voice soft. He looked up into Greg's gaze. "Coaxed into your care?"

 

*

 

“Oh, I certainly hope so,” Greg said with a grin. He leaned in and kissed Mycroft again, wrapping one arm around his waist to draw him in close.

_ God. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of kissing you, gorgeous. _

_ Not ever. _

 

*

 

_ Oh... oh, dear god... _

Mycroft's arms wrapped themselves around Greg's neck, his pulse leaping as their mouths came together again. If he had any sense, he knew he'd stop this to think. 

But all he wanted was to fall into it - let it carry him away.

_ Kiss me. Kiss me like I'm the first. Kiss me like I'm the last. _

_ Oh god, Greg, kiss me -  _

 

*

 

Greg lost himself in Mycroft for several long minutes, savoring the contact and the sweetness of his mouth.

Eventually, he pulled back just a little, panting softly. “God,” he murmured, voice rough. “God, I want you - so bad - fuck, what you  _ do _ to me -”

He peppered Mycroft’s neck with kisses, unable to resist. No marks - nowhere visible, anyway - but he could leave kisses.

Kisses enough to make Mycroft remember him even when they couldn’t be in physical contact. Kisses enough to leave a mark on his soul, if not his skin.

Just enough.

 

*

 

_ Oh - fuck -  _

Mycroft's pulse hit the ceiling. His fingers dug into Greg's shoulder blades at once, his breath catching in his throat. The sound of the man  _ panting  _ was enough to weaken his knees; the rasp of Greg's mouth at his neck then flooded his veins with unbearable heat.

"G-Greg - " 

Mycroft screwed his eyes shut, fighting not to moan. He stirred between Greg and the door. 

"I - s-sensitive neck - " His hands tightened, his head falling back in desperation even as he swallowed in panic.  _ "Oh - " _

 

*

 

“Sorry,” Greg murmured, moving away to instead pepper kisses on Mycroft’s jaw. He followed the curve of it along to his chin, then captured his lips in another searing kiss.

He pressed forward on instinct, pinning the man to the door in an attempt to get closer still.

_ Not really possible, I guess, unless we - _

_ God, yes - _

_ Please - _

He made a low noise into Mycroft’s mouth, cheeks flushing with heat. He could  _ feel _ that heat travelling lower, and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it.

Pressed together as they were, there wasn’t a chance in Hell the other man wouldn’t notice.

 

*

 

_ Pinned. Oh, god.  _ Panting in submission into the kiss, Mycroft realised the press of Greg's body was soon going to have a particular effect on him that he wouldn't be able to bite back. He was barely restraining his sounds of pleasure as it was; this was about to become rather more intimate. 

He then realised, with a catch in his breath, that the dilemma was shared. 

_ Christ almighty.  _

_ Aroused. Kissing me. _

The nuzzle of Greg's hardening cock through their loose, light clothing was enough to rob Mycroft of his senses for a moment. When they returned, he realised the tight, frantic moan he'd just heard had come from his own mouth - Greg's name, torn from his lips in longing.

Colour flooded Mycroft's face at once.

"Oh, god - I'm s-sorry - " Fighting to control himself, he shied his hips back against the door. Blood was rushing through his body. "G-Greg, this - this is... p-perhaps we should - "

 

*

 

Greg braced his hands against the door and pushed himself away, panting hard to catch his breath. The sound of Mycroft - moaning  _ his _ name, like that -

He needed a little space, or he was going to do something inadvisable.

When his brain caught up with his ears, he looked into Mycroft’s face. “God, gorgeous, don’t be sorry,” he murmured. “No need to be sorry at all.  _ I’m _ sorry. Got a bit - carried away.”

He had separated their bodies as much as he could, arms trembling with the effort of it. He knew he should move back - away - give Mycroft space to process this -

But it was all he could do just to maintain the few inches he had given them. More was impossible.

He looked over his shoulder, then back at Mycroft, grinning sheepishly. “Not really the place for it, eh?”

_ Don’t mean to rush you, gorgeous. _

_ We’ll take this at your pace. Whatever you want. _

 

*

 

_ He's trembling.  _

_ He wants to -  _

Inhaling deeply, Mycroft settled his fingers on Greg's forearms - one either side of him against the door. His expression flickered; longing, soft and unguarded, passed across his face. 

Breathing it out, he let his head rest back.

"P-Perhaps we - should take some time to - " 

This was monumental. His heart was still heaving against his ribs, unable to believe it.  _ 'From the first time I saw you.'  _ He gazed at Greg, his eyes full of nervous affection, and tried to imagine a moment this would  _ not  _ feel exquisitely, perfectly, beautifully unreal. 

Tentatively, he slid his hands down to Greg's wrists. His fingertips stole just beneath his sleeves, laying gently against his pulse-points.

Mycroft held his gaze.

"I'm - i-intensely attracted to you. I have been from the start." The truth was written all over his face, his eyes soft and open. "Knowing that you also - f-for me... it's wonderful, Greg. Truly. I want nothing more than to discover every single facet of that, and enjoy each one to the fullest."

He kept his breath for a moment.

"B-But I need to..." Mycroft flushed. "For just a few hours. I haven't - someone - f-for many years. This is wonderful and overwhelming. If we - i-if you and I intend to take a risk, and... come to some understanding together, I - think we should be certain. This is not a minor change." 

He paused, gently holding Greg's wrists. 

"Perhaps if, by tonight, we would both still wish to... w-we can talk a little more."

 

*

 

_ This man. This wonderful, shy, adorable, powerful man. _

_ God, you’re perfect. _

Greg smiled softly, heart thumping in his chest, full of affection and adoration and - 

Something he couldn’t yet name.

“‘Course, gorgeous,” he said easily, nodding a little. “This is a big thing. Putting this on pause sounds like a great idea. Get our heads clear, make sure this is right for us.”

He smiled wryly, clearly laughing at himself. “Glad I’ve got you to think clearly for me. I’ve a habit of rushing into things a bit.”

Taking a deep breath, Greg stepped back, letting his hands drop. In the same motion, he took Mycroft’s hands and held them gently, thumbs caressing the back of his hands in an automatic gesture.

“Don’t worry. We’ll take our time with this.” He smiled again, open and honest. “Best things are worth waiting for. This is one of those things.”

_ You’re already one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, gorgeous. I can wait. I can be patient. _

_ This is worth it.  _

_ You’re worth it. _

 

*

 

Mycroft's chest strained quietly. His fingers slid between Greg's without thinking; it took effort to ease them away. In truth, all he wanted to do was go somewhere they could be comfortable. He wanted to kiss and touch. He wanted to hear more of those incredible words.

But the reassurance of a few hours' reflection would put his heart to rest.

From the look on Greg's face, this was not a sudden interest for either of them - and where it would lead, Mycroft didn't know. He longed for it to lead them there. The man was magnificent, and he was now murmuring things to Mycroft that he hadn't even dared to imagine.

If Greg came to him tonight, there would be certainty. They could follow it where it went. 

_ One last chance,  _ Mycroft thought, gazing at the man whose smile made him feel half his age.  _ One final chance for you to come to your senses, and run screaming from me... _

Heart drumming, his eyes lost in Greg's, Mycroft reached behind him for the door handle.

"I - might spent the afternoon in the library. Maybe this evening, we could meet..." He hesitated. "Somewhere we can speak privately. I'll be in my room from nine, perhaps."

 

*

 

Greg nodded a little, finding his throat suddenly too thick to speak through.

_ Christ, gorgeous. Inviting me to your bedroom. _

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had done that. Not since Katy, at least.

His throat worked a moment to dissolve some of the thickness, and he managed, “Nine it is then.”

Greg took a deep breath and stepped back further to keep himself from stepping forward and closing the distance again. He was going to let out some tension on a punching bag after this, that was for certain.

He smiled gently. “Enjoy your afternoon. I’ll see you later,” he promised.

Nothing short of the end of the world would keep him from Mycroft’s bedroom this evening, or any evening to come.

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart felt as if it were coming apart at the seams.

"Yes," he said, softly. It was impossible not to smile. "You, too."

The silence lingered. 

_ Oh, god. You are beautiful.  _

_ This is everything. It begins here. _

_ I know it. _

Mycroft turned the handle, opening the door through some miracle of self-control. His hand shook. He couldn't conceal it.

He didn't think he'd be able to conceal anything from Greg ever again.

"Until nine," he said, gave the man a last smile, and left the room.

 

* * *

He found her upstairs in the library. She was asleep in a chair beside the fireplace, curled up as pretty as a cushion.

Mycroft resisted the urge to run to her. 

When he reached her, he scooped her gently into his arms. He couldn't breathe. He wanted to waltz around the room with her, sing to her. He wanted her to know.

Alice stirred, stretched and trilled in her papa's ear.

Beaming, Mycroft buried his fingers in her fur.

"I think so, sweetheart... " he whispered.

 


	37. Upon a Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my friend Tess Swindell. Tess lost her battle with depression on July 3, 2018. She had been struggling with it for many years, and I was by her side for several of those years. The loss of her is devastating to all who knew her. 
> 
> Please, if you're struggling, remember there is always help. Call or text a suicide hotline, reach out to a friend, message me on Tumblr (@wakingthewindstorm). Please. Someone loves you, even if you haven't met them yet.
> 
> ~WindStorm

* * *

 

As the sunlight faded from gold to red to purple, the temperature dipped and the breeze that stirred leaves and hair alike went from cooling to cool. Anthea shivered a little and began to sit up.

She hadn’t felt so relaxed in eons. She let a shudder ripple through her as she stretched, then exhaled long and slow and looked out over the view with a sleepy smile.

She turned to Jinx and laid a hand over hers, lacing their fingers together. 

“Thank you,” she said softly, expression more gentle and open than Jinx had probably ever seen it. “For everything.”

_ For being with me. _

_ For knowing what I needed. _

_ For taking me away. _

_ For holding me. _

_ Everything. _

A new, warm feeling had settled in Anthea’s chest. It felt like safety and peace, and it felt a little like the warmth of a fire, and it felt a lot like something she had no words for. Rather than pick it apart, inspect it and deconstruct it, Anthea decided to just enjoy it and hold onto it.

_ I don’t need to know why. I just need to know that it feels good. _

She looked over her shoulder and smiled, pointing up at the sky with her free hand. “Look. A star,” she said quietly. One of the very first peeking out in the dusk, glittering quietly at them.

 

*

 

Jinx smiled almost sleepily, letting their fingers tangle without a worry. These things didn't need a name putting to them. Life was too complicated for all that noise. It was nice just to lie down with someone in the grass, and remember you were really only an animal wearing clothes.

"No worries," she murmured. She stretched against the ground, wishing she was in her vans - something she could push off with her toes. 

In the moment that Anthea spotted it, Jinx saw it too. She smiled, brushing her thumb against Anthea's palm in a circle.

"First of the night," she said.  _ Means we get a wish.  _ "You take it, posh girl. Think you need it more than me today."

 

*

 

Anthea looked up at it, and something shifted in her expression.

_ Let me have this for just a little while more _ , she wished. Her fingers tightened in Jinx’s.

_ Just a little while longer. _

The burning behind her eyes returned and she closed her eyes to try and relieve it.

For once, it took only a moment to resolve - she startled a little and her eyes flew open. Her free hand came up, touched her cheek, and came away wet.

She stared at the tears on her fingertips as though she had never seen them before. They almost glowed in the twilight.

_ What are you doing to me? _

 

*

 

Jinx almost smiled. 

She almost made the joke, too.  _ Are you thawing out in the sun, Ice Queen? Better get you inside.  _ There wasn't any need for it, though. She spent enough of her life dampening things down with jokes.  _ Let it be what it is,  _ she thought.

She wished she had a tissue to offer. Sadly, she'd come without anything but Anthea, the remote for the gates and a motorbike helmet. She'd even left her mobile in the car. Her cigarettes were still lying in the garden, and her tie was tossed somewhere in the garage.

"Okay?" she said, gazing up from the grass. Her eyes crinkled at the edges. "Stressful day. Got to get it out somehow."

 

*

 

“I can’t remember the last time this happened to me,” Anthea murmured quietly, wiping at her face. “I’ve always been better than this.”

_ ‘Don’t cry, Anthea, you are embarrassing us.’ _

_ ‘No tears, dear, rise above it.’ _

Her eyes closed and more tears fell. She let go of Jinx’s hand and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering a little with the force of her emotions and the coolness of the sunset. “Dammit,” she whispered, hunching in on herself.

“Dammit.”

 

*

 

_ Uh oh. _

Jinx pushed up onto her elbows, carefully, and tried to decide in the space of a few seconds what the thing to do here was. Comfort? Or brush it away? 

She didn't know if she could just make light of this. She'd seen it; Anthea knew she'd seen it, too. Jokes and shrugging would make it seem like she was embarrassed, like Anthea was doing something wrong, and she wasn't. 

At the same time, she didn't know if Anthea would want clucking and fussing. This had clearly unsettled her; Jinx wanted to take her back in a better state than she'd found her.

"Hey," she said, quietly, and shuffled near. She placed a hand on Anthea's back, watching carefully for signs it wasn't wanted. "Hey... d'you know how many professional soldiers I've seen cry? If they're allowed, so are you. It gets on top of us all sometimes. It's fine."

She paused, rubbing gently between Anthea's shoulders.

"Only me here, darlin'. You've not done anything wrong."

 

*

 

“Sorry,” Anthea mumbled, hiding her face in her hands. She took deep breaths, trying to get herself back under control.

_ Calm. Cool. Centered. Like a mountain lake. Breathe. In, out. _

It didn’t help. Her shoulders shook with silent, wracking sobs.

_ Fuck. _

She gasped softly and pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face in them instead. “Dammit,” she whispered again. “Dammit. I hate this.”

_ Don’t go. _

_ Don’t leave me alone with this. _

_ I just need a minute. _

“Sorry…” Her voice was muffled against her knees, and she sent a silent thank you to her earlier self for wearing waterproof makeup. She didn’t need a stained dress on top of all this.

 

*

 

_ God, darlin'... what the hell happened to you today? _

Jinx couldn't leave her sitting there. She couldn't stay back - couldn't just watch this, wait for it to be over. 

"Who're you sorry to, mm?" she murmured, took a silent breath of hope, and shuffled close beside Anthea. "Nothing you've done to me... nothing you've done to anyone, princess. Apology not accepted."

Easing her arms around Anthea, ready at any second to be pushed away, she wrapped herself like a protective cocoon around the other woman - holding her just as she was, knees up, head down and crying.

"C'mere," she said, softly. "You're safe. Nobody's here."

 

*

 

Anthea’s sobs redoubled and she leaned back into Jinx’s embrace. It had been years - well over a decade, if her math was correct - since she had cried, and not since she was a teenager or younger had she cried so hard. It hurt, but it felt cleansing.

Much like the rest of the day, interestingly enough.

It was perhaps another ten minutes before she calmed down and had reduced her sobs to quiet hiccups. Twilight had firmly settled over them like a blanket, softening the edges of the world and glittering softly in moonlight and stars.

Anthea was glad of it. The sorry state of her would be hidden in shadow.

She uncurled and leaned back against Jinx, breathing quietly. Without a word, she reached back and pulled the other woman’s arms around her, taking the embrace she needed.

 

*

 

_ There we go, gorgeous... there you are. _

Jinx cosied her arms slowly around Anthea's middle, wrapping them into place. She rested her chin on Anthea's shoulder, closed her eyes, and just breathed with her for another minute or two - trying not to think of Anthea's neck, just a turn of her head away; the soft swell of her breasts, just above Jinx's arms; the settling quiet all around them and the moon high above. 

Gently she began to rock Anthea - slow, easy, side to side. It was the barest movement, in time with Anthea's breathing.

"Are you cold, posh girl?" Jinx murmured, soft. 

Anthea was having her jacket for the ride home. 

There would be no arguing about that.

 

*

 

“A little,” Anthea murmured, eyes closed. “I’ll be alright.” 

She half-smiled. “Remind me to pack trousers and a cardigan for the next time you decide to spirit me away,” she hummed, settling back easily.

Now relaxed, it seemed the easiest thing in the world for her to let the worries and pain of the afternoon slip away on the breeze. To just let herself be held and rocked, like she was important.

Like Jinx cared.

_ Even though it’s pretend, I can have it for a little while. _

It felt amazing. She wanted -

Well. She wanted to turn in Jinx’s arms, to press their lips together and kiss under the moonlight. Wrap herself up in the woman’s warmth and comfort and let herself float in it.

But she had already been turned down once, and Anthea knew not to tread where she wasn’t wanted. She didn’t want to break this easy comfort, force it into something it wasn’t.

So she simply cuddled a little more into the embrace, turning her head to tuck it under Jinx’s chin, and let herself be held.

_ Just for a few minutes more. _

 

*

 

Jinx rumbled with amusement against the top of her head.

"Should've dug your fluffy winter underthings out," she murmured, as her fingertips sketched an idle pattern over Anthea's stomach. "S'okay. Get a hot bath when we're back, then go straight to bed... start again in the morning."

She let the quiet settle for a few minutes, wondering how Anthea would be with her tomorrow. 

Part of her wondered if this would be regretted in the morning. She didn't know how Anthea was going to look back on these few hours of weakness. When the sun came up, and she turned her eyes onto the scruffy idiot who drove Mr Holmes around, remembered how many open wounds Jinx had been allowed to glimpse, maybe her response would be to close up and seal shut. 

Sniping at each other was easy and comfortable. Everybody knew where they stood. This was new. 

Jinx tightened her arms a little. She wanted to leave a way back here - a single thread. Even if it was ignored forever, and the morning would bring about an ice age that didn't end, at least she could tell herself she'd tried.

"If you need this again," she said, quietly, "ask me if I've finished organising the storage bins in the shed yet. I'll take you away."

She paused; a note of humour softened her voice.

"M'never going to finish organising those things, so... I'll know what you mean."

 

*

 

It was only through a tremendous effort of will that Anthea managed to keep from squirming and giggling as Jinx’s fingers traced over her abdomen. She had always been extremely ticklish; one of her secret embarrassments.

Luckily, the woman’s fingertips stilled after a few moments, and Anthea could breathe again. She listened to the offer - to be spirited away from it all, whenever she wanted - and half-smiled. It was tinged with sadness.

_ I shouldn’t. _

_ This was enough self-indulgence for the rest of the year. _

_ But it is sweet of you to offer. _

Somehow, when Jinx offered, Anthea knew that she meant it. Even if she wasn’t the bubbly, slightly ditzy Jessamine Maguire (and she certainly wasn’t; or at least, that wasn’t  _ all _ she was), there was an honesty to Jinx that Anthea felt she could trust.

_ How curious. _

The list of people Anthea knew she could trust could be counted on one hand, with many fingers left over. It was now one person longer.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I shall keep that in mind.”

She shivered again, just slightly. “I dread to think what time it is…” She shifted in Jinx’s arms, not wanting to get up but well aware that they needed to get back.

“That bath sounds lovely,” she hummed. If things were different - if Jinx hadn’t already turned her down - Anthea would have offered to share it.

_ Shame. _ But there it was.

At least there was nothing stopping her from imagining it later. Probably while she was in said bath.

 

*

 

As Anthea shifted, Jinx loosened her arms gently to let her - not hindering her movement, waiting for her to ease away or settle as she wanted.

"Shall we get you back before midnight, Cinderella?" she murmured, her voice soft. "Before I turn back into a rat, and my bike becomes a pumpkin?"

 

*

 

“Mouse,” Anthea chuckled softly. She turned in Jinx’s arms, eyes gentle. “You’re too cute to be a rat.”

She smiled a little. “Does that make Mr. Holmes my wicked stepfather? Or is that Lestrade?”

 

*

 

Jinx's expression creased with humour; it shone in her eyes. 

"Lestrade's the prince I have to watch you marry. Turns out Mrs Collins is the fairy godmother, and the lot of us were doomed from the start."

A moment of quiet came. 

Jinx watched Anthea, quite calm, her expression a convergence of all things. Her eyes were easy in the darkness, and her white shirt ruffled from the grass.

She waited, half-smiling.

The silence held its breath.

 

*

 

Anthea’s head tilted a little, catching the moonlight in her brunette waves. She searched Jinx’s expression, floating in that one moment.

_ Reckless. _

_ This is about want. _

She leaned forward and pressed her lips against Jinx’s and sealed the moment. It was chaste, and sweet, and flavored with starlight.

She pulled back just enough to murmur, “You don’t have to watch me marry him.”

_ This was a bad idea. _

_ I don’t care. _

Even if Jinx pushed her away now, took it all back and hated Anthea for it all, at least she would know how it felt to give someone a sweet kiss under the stars.

She would always have that.

 

*

 

Jinx's mouth curved slowly beneath the kiss.

She stayed exactly as she was, smiling at Anthea from a few inches away, her eyes still shining and her body at ease. 

She bit her lip; she pulled it idly between her teeth.

"Hey," she murmured. She held the words in her mouth a moment more. "When we get back..."

 

*

 

“Things don’t have to change,” Anthea said quietly, expression understanding, if a little sad. “This - can just be what it is.”

_ Courage. _

_ This is about want. _

“Or…” She laced her fingers through Jinx’s, dropping her eyes. “...or things can change.”

_ I’m scared. _

_ I don’t know what I’m doing. _

_ I’m out of my depth. _

_ But I want to try. _

Her gaze flicked back up and she looked at Jinx through her eyelashes, searching. 

 

*

 

Jinx let their fingers twine. She looked back into those beautiful eyes as they reached for her, giving them her gaze, soft and unwavering.  _ Shy, suddenly... is this an act, posh girl? Or am I special?  _

She supposed it didn't matter. 

"See how we feel when we get there, mm? When we're back in the real world." 

Stirring, she braced a hand on the ground to get to her feet.

"C'mon, sweetheart," she said, extending a hand to Anthea. "Before you fucking freeze out here. Let's go find out if we'll be doing this next time with wine."

 

*

 

Anthea took the hand and got up, brushing herself off carefully. She let none of her disappointment show on her face, instead wrapping her arms around herself and shivering slightly.

_ See how we feel when we get there. _ Not exactly an enthusiastic yes. She had employed enough stalling tactics in her lifetime to know one when she heard it. 

Because if you hold someone off long enough, they’ll give up. She knew that well.

She couldn’t make it fit - being whisked away. Being held and comforted as she had never let anyone, not even Mr. Holmes, do for her. Being rocked and soothed. And then  _ see how we feel. _

Had she pushed it too far, with the kiss? Broken their fragile truce, or whatever this was?

But no, Jinx had smiled into the kiss, Anthea had felt it.

She felt unsteady on her feet, as if the world had jolted sideways and left her behind, or maybe tilted a few degrees. 

Out here, under the tree and dappled by moonlight, nothing felt real.

Maybe that was the reason for it. 

Here, they were in a fairytale, where they could hold and be held without consequences. Where wishes came true, and  _ should _ could give way to  _ want _ .

Perhaps Jinx was trying to protect her. Remind her of what the world was actually like, who they were and who they would be when they returned.

_ Who are you, when we go back? _

Maybe Jinx was trying to protect herself.

Anthea didn’t know. But she intended to find out.

 

*

 

Back at the bike, Jinx helped Anthea carefully onto the seat. She wrapped the other woman in her jacket, reached for the helmet still hanging on the handlebars, and rubbed her thumb over the strap.

"Really," she said, "I should  _ force _ you to put this on. I shouldn't mention that you're with the safest driver in the country, and these roads are fucking empty after dark - and that riding without it feels amazing."

 

*

 

Anthea passed a hand over her mouth to hide the smile that wanted to bubble up.  _ I only get to be reckless for a little while longer. _

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” she said, tugging the jacket more securely around her shoulders. “Put it away, then.”

_ At least if we get into a crash I might die, and I won’t have to explain to Mr. Holmes why we were out racing on a motorbike after dark. _

_ Together. _

 

*

 

Jinx grinned, hooked the helmet back over the handlebar, and eased up onto the bike. 

"Knew you had a wild streak in you somewhere, posh girl..." She got herself settled into place and leant back, turning her head over her shoulder. "Ready? Arms 'round me. You won't get the views in the dark, but we can still fly."

 


	38. Arrangement

The rest of the afternoon was an exquisite form of torture for Greg. He’d manage to distract himself for ten, twenty minutes at a time (his record was forty-five, he’d checked), and something,  _ anything _ , would remind him of Mycroft and his train of thought would get completely derailed.

Frankly, he was glad the house was empty aside from the two of them. It meant that his dopey grins were his alone for the time being.

In an effort to make the time go by at anything other than a snail’s pace, Greg threw himself into any activity he could find. Attacking a punching bag, reading a book, watching something bland and awful on the telly, puttering about in the garden as if he had any clue what he was doing.

None of it really helped. His thoughts continued to drift back to Mycroft, and the thought of this evening, and every time he checked the clock it got slower and slower.

He was pretty sure the clock was doing it on purpose, the bastard.

 

*

 

When it got close to dinnertime, Greg realized how empty the house was still. He had been vaguely aware of Anthea going off for some lunch meeting, and Jinx and Mrs. Collins going out shopping, but none of them had returned.

He didn’t devote too much thought to it. Instead, he relished the opportunity to distract himself by making chicken carbonara for dinner. Grating the parmesan, separating the yolks from the whites, dicing pancetta and herbs; it all served to calm and center him.

He ate alone. That was unsurprising, really, when he thought about it; the unspoken agreement had been to avoid each other until nine o’clock.

Didn’t make it any easier, he supposed.

The leftovers went in the fridge, and he managed to distract himself a bit longer by cleaning up thoroughly.

_ Only a couple more hours. _

 

*

 

Greg locked himself in the entertainment den until quarter past nine. He had been tempted to go straight up as soon as the clock struck nine, but realized that he needed some time to calm and center himself. The fact that he had jumped up like he had been electrocuted when the clock started chiming had given him a hint.

After easing himself back down, he had focused on his breathing until it no longer felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest. 

It was all for naught. As soon as his foot landed on the first stair, his pulse had started racing again, leaving him breathless and a little dizzy.

_ Christ. I want this so bad. _

_ I hope he wants this too. _

He spent the ascent batting away his fears; that Mycroft would come to his senses and send him away, that this was just an elaborate joke, that he had been played for a fool.

_ Mycroft’s not like that. He wouldn’t do that to me. _

_ He’s just as scared as I am. _

_ We’ll be okay. _

Swallowing hard, feeling like he was about to step into a brand new, unfamiliar world, he knocked lightly on Mycroft’s door to announce himself and pushed the door open.

 

*

 

Mycroft breathed in.

_ The moment of truth. _

He took a moment to settle himself, then reached for the bottle standing by the window. Special, from the cellar. It was a Spalletti Chianti - 1959 vintage - the price tag was palpitation-inducing.

As was this moment.

As he poured out the first glass, Mycroft called, "Come in, Greg." He found himself impressed by the steadiness of his voice.

The sun was just sinking over the estate. It filled the room with a deep, rich glow of gold, just settling into orange, and leant a depth to the quiet that it didn't usually possess. Mycroft had placed two chairs beside the window. He'd changed his clothing - grey waistcoat, shirtsleeves rolled, no tie - and as he filled the second glass, there was intense calm in his movements. 

He'd spent the time thinking, and he'd reached his peace.

All he needed now was to know if his thoughts were shared.

Glancing over his shoulder, he gave Greg the smallest of smiles. 

"Would you like to sit down?" he asked.

 

*

 

Greg’s first thought was,  _ Holy shit.  _ The man - the room - everything was absolutely perfect and breathtakingly beautiful.

His second was  _ Underdressed, again.  _ T-shirt and jeans to Mycroft’s waistcoat and trousers.

His third,  _ Hopefully won’t matter soon. _

His fourth, fifth, and sixth were mostly self-chastisement and struggles to focus on the situation at hand.

_ How the fuck are you so calm? _ he found himself wondering.  _ Here I am, all jitters, and you’re standing there like that, as if you haven’t a worry in the world. _

_ Christ. _

Belatedly, Greg realized Mycroft had asked him a question. “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, smiling a little. He spotted the wine and arched a brow, smiling wider. “Are we going to toast something?” he asked as he walked over.

_ Please let us be toasting our new relationship. _

There were two glasses, which Greg was pretty sure was a good sign.

Pretty sure.

 

*

 

Mycroft carefully fought a smile, finishing the second glass and replacing the cork. He placed it beside the second chair.

_ Like his first morning here.  _ He remembered it so well. Greg had clearly known, the instant Maguire arrived for him, that the job was his. He'd arrived at the house in full awareness that this was his new home, and Mycroft had summoned him for one reason only. Greg hadn't come to find out if he'd been offered the position; he'd come to claim it.

And now he'd come to Mycroft's room.

Taking a seat, Mycroft crossed one leg over the other. He took a sip of his wine, glad to have something to occupy his hands, and realised as he did that  _ he  _ was recreating their first meetings, too. He was projecting calm with all his might, trying to pretend his heart wasn't cracking itself into pieces in an effort to escape from his ribcage, keeping his hand close to his chest.

He suspected Greg would see through it now as easily as he had then.

"I thought wine might aid discussion," he said, and internally despaired at himself - as if they were here to discuss some tweak to Greg's contract; as if they weren't both fully aware what was about to be considered. 

 

*

 

“Uh huh,” Greg said, seating himself and taking his wineglass in hand. “Wine that probably costs more than my car did, if I’m any judge. Which I’m not.” He smiled over the rim of the glass, eyes sparkling. “I just know you.”

He realized, as he said it, that he  _ did _ . He  _ did _ know Mycroft. Knew his quirks and his habits, his preferences and hatreds.

Somehow, realizing that made most of the tension bleed out of Greg’s body, replaced by a placid calm.

He knew how this would go. And it would turn out right, in the end.

He propped an ankle up on the opposite knee and leaned back in his chair, taking a sip of the wine. It tasted expensive, which was about as far as his knowledge of wines went.

“I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve done essentially nothing productive all afternoon,” Greg said easily, watching Mycroft with anticipation in his eyes. “Been thinking about this. You.”

It was easy to be honest like this, away from the world and bathed in gold.  He knew, with every fiber of his being, that what Mycroft needed right now was his honesty.

He’d give him that.

 

*

 

_ You utter scamp.  _ Mycroft's expression worked over his wine-glass, his eyes glittering where they rested on Greg.  _ My skull might as well be transparent. _ Greg hadn't a flicker of worry about him, and every scrap of tension was unwinding around them by the moment. Mycroft had expected this to feel in some way uneasy - issues to decide, challenges to acknowledge, priorities to consider.

Conclusions to reach.

Now Greg was sitting in front of him, and the world felt right and easy. It felt like everything was taken care of. 

_ This is love,  _ he thought, as he drank. He closed his eyes a moment, letting it be true at last.  _ This is how it feels. As if there will never be a single problem again. _

As he placed his glass aside, Mycroft attempted some sort of composure. 

"You've occupied my thoughts as well." Honesty tugged at his heart; it made him smile. "I can't in good faith restrict that statement to this afternoon."

 

*

 

Greg chuckled a little and set his glass aside as well. His foot dropped off his knee and he sat forward, eyes sparkling. “Well, okay, me neither.”

The sparkle turned impish and promising. “You occupy my thoughts for a lot of reasons. Professional and… otherwise.” His voice dropped a little with the last word, tone growing deeper and richer.

It was a good thing they were both sitting, or Greg would have kissed the man right then.

_ Slowly. We can take this slow. _

_ All the time in the world. _

 

*

 

Mycroft kept his smile in check, regarding Greg with quiet understanding. Within mere moments, this could spiral straight into the bed and not leave it until morning. He realised now that the barrier between them had been whisper-thin; it was now gone. They could see each other clearly.

Somehow Mycroft could now see himself clearly, too.

Greg did things to him no other man had ever done. In a glance, he reduced Mycroft to joyful emotions and soft impulses. He made Mycroft feel safe. He made him feel at peace. He reminded Mycroft's soul that it was a human soul, and he made his skin ache to be touched. He always had done.

Looking at him now, Mycroft knew beyond doubt that he always would.

For this to have happened to him, aged forty-six, was undreamable. It could change the world forever, for both of them, and Mycroft had a feeling even his most glorious daydreams might fall short. It felt as if they were looking very closely at one small piece of a painting, one tiny section - marvelling at its beauty - wondering how much more beautiful the whole thing would be.

He had to keep his head, though - for just a few minutes more. 

Once these minutes were over, he could sink into Greg's arms and never surface. This was the last moment of calm before it all began.

Drawing breath, Mycroft said,

"There are things I - need you to bear in mind. Things we should both be aware of, before we -  _ if  _ we..."

 

*

 

Greg held up a hand for just a moment. He searched Mycroft’s expression. “We should talk about that,” he agreed, “but first, I want to get something straight.”

He took a breath and chewed on his lip for just a moment. “This isn’t an  _ ‘if’ _ thing for me, Mycroft. My mind is made up. I want you - I want this. Whatever it is, whatever complications we run across - whatever. We’ll deal. But this isn’t an ‘if’.”

He lifted his chin, just a fraction. “Is it an ‘if’ for you?” he asked quietly. He already knew that the answer was  _ no _ , was that Mycroft wanted this as much as he did, but he needed the words.

He was pretty sure Mycroft needed the space to say them.

 

*

 

_ Oh, dear god. Take me to bed. _

Mycroft reached for his wine. He drank to settle a variety of thoughts now racing through his head, took a moment to ensure they were safely locked away out of reach of his mouth, then said,

"I - care for you." His heart heaved. "Deeply. That includes care for your reputation, your future. Your well-being in  _ all _ things, Greg. In a few months, you and I will have to negotiate a new contract for your employment... your agency will expect a permanent assignment to my household. My superiors will expect a permanent assignment to my household. If you and I - a-alter the nature of our relationship, you would then be vulnerable, locked into a legal contract as my employee.  _ I _ would be vulnerable."

Mycroft drank, realising there were other things he needed to say. He couldn't keep them behind his mouth.

"You are - world-changing to me. I've been attracted to you from a very, very early stage of our relationship. I've attempted on a number of occasions to suppress those feelings in myself, often out of concern for you. For the position I'd be placing you in. Truly, Greg, you - take my breath."

Mycroft gazed into his eyes, trying to cope with it - to say it calmly, quietly, to ignore the tremor in his wrist.

"A hundred times a day," he said. "Nothing would make me happier in this world than to - be with you. To share more of what we shared this morning. Greg, if - if you weren't my employee - th-this would be perhaps the easiest decision I have ever made in my life. The truth remains that you rely upon me for your income, your security. Your  _ home.  _ I-If you - if you ever developed doubts - if you - wished to change your mind on our arrangement... you would be vulnerable.  _ Deeply _ vulnerable."

 

*

 

It was as close a  _ ‘no, this isn’t ‘if’ for me’ _ that Greg was likely to get. He listened quietly, letting it all wash over him. The warm glow of it suffused him, hearing how much Mycroft wanted this, how worried he was about taking advantage of Greg, of the repercussions for them both if this all went sideways.

_ Brilliant man, _ he thought fondly.

He took a breath, allowing his thoughts to settle for just a moment more. “You’ve got a lot of very good points there,” he said, giving Mycroft a small smile. “This is - pretty risky. Since you’re technically my boss and all.”

His eyes crinkled mischievously. “Sir.” 

He let the word linger in the air for a heartbeat before he continued on. “If it got out that we were - anything more than the contract says, it could go really badly. For both of us. Your reputation and mine. There’d be a hell of a fallout. But I don’t think that’ll happen. We’re grown men, I think we’re capable of keeping this to ourselves.”

He inhaled and put his hands on his knees, looking away. He tried to control the tremble that he knew was coming.

_ Get it out. Just get it out and get it over with. _

“While I appreciate your concern for my - status - you don’t have to be. Concerned. I’ve -” He gritted his teeth.  _ Keep talking. Don’t think about it. Just say it.  _ “- been in a similar sort of position before. Wasn’t my boss, but I was - pretty reliant on him. For everything. And I got away when I needed.”

He could feel the tremble in his hands and his shoulders and ignored it. “So - you don’t have to worry about that. Done it before, I can do it again.”  _ Don’t ask me about it now, please. Please. Just let it go. Just trust me. _

Finally, Greg managed to look at Mycroft again, smiling weakly. “I doubt that I’ll need to. I… don’t want to leave you, Mycroft. I know you’d never take advantage of your position over me. I trust you. I want you. Simple.”

Not that any of this was simple at all, but he could pretend it was. All that really mattered was that they wanted each other. Everything else was trivialities.

 

*

 

_ 'I trust you. I want you. Simple.' _

Mycroft's heart drummed quietly against his ribs.

Perhaps it truly was that simple. 

A live-in employee was always in a vulnerable position; an intimate relationship wasn't necessarily needed for that. If Maguire ever antagonised Mycroft to the point of a severed contract, she would lose both home and security. It was the nature of these positions.

Mycroft longed to reach out - to take Greg's hands, hold them - say these words while their fingers were joined, while that comfort of human touch made it all so much easier. 

Instead, he drank. He gripped the wine glass, quietly, and looked into Greg's eyes. 

"I will be honourable to you," he said. His eyes burned with the promise. "Always. No matter what transpires between us, Greg. I believe you're an honourable man. The most honourable I've ever encountered. I wish for you to be comfortable, secure and free... to take those things from you is outside of my nature. I have the  _ greatest  _ interest in your happiness. Whether you are close to me or not."

_ God almighty, why is my throat closing? Why can I hear my heart? _

"You are precious to me," he said, gripping the wine glass tighter. His voice broke. "You are -  _ w-wonderful _ to me. If I ever caused you to suffer... Greg, I - "

 

*

 

It was the most natural thing in the world for Greg to rise carefully and cross the small distance between them. He removed the glass from Mycroft’s hand gently, prising his fingers from around the stem and setting the glass aside.

“Don’t need this, gorgeous,” he murmured, kneeling carefully on the floor between Mycroft’s legs. He stayed upright, so they were nearly face to face. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

He took the man’s hands and laced their fingers together, squeezing softly. “I’m right here,” he repeated, looking up into blue-grey eyes. “And I’m not going anywhere. And it’s all going to be alright, alright? We’ll work this through together. You and me, gorgeous. Simple.”

_ Trust me. It’s gonna be okay. _

_ We’re gonna be okay. _

 

*

 

Mycroft let go of the glass without a flicker of resistance. His pupils swelled the moment Greg came close enough to touch, heat flashing through his chest in a rush. The lace of their fingers broke what little remained of his resolve into shards.

He tightened his grip, shivering, gazing with desperation across those last few inches.

"I- I haven't - "  _ Oh, god. Oh fuck.  _ "I haven't been i-intimate with someone for... frankly a shameful number of years. My experience isn't - I'm not sure what - "

_ Christ, I just wish to love you. How do I love you? What will make you happy? _

_ Show me. Show me. _

_ For god's sake, show me. _

"I can't stay away from you," he said before he could stop himself, his face tightening with distress. "I can't stop myself anymore. You are perfect."

 

*

 

“Makes two of us, gorgeous,” Greg murmured, smiling easily.

_ It’s alright, darlin’. Want to hear that you want me, too. _

“Don’t want you to stay away from me,” he breathed,  not breaking their locked gaze for a moment. “I want you here. With me. I don’t care about what experience you do or don’t have - doesn’t matter in the least, gorgeous. Doesn’t matter a bit. All that matters is us.”

He rose a little and shifted. One knee came up to balance on the chair, in the space between Mycroft’s legs. Leaning forward, Greg released one hand and brought it to cup the back of Mycroft’s neck, pulling him forward.

“Just want you,” he murmured. “And you want me. S’all that matters. I promise.”

He leaned in, closed the distance, and kissed the worried man beneath him, trying to give him the affection and reassurance he so desperately needed.

 

*

 

_ Oh, fuck... _

Mycroft's heart tore itself into shreds at once. Like tissue, it fluttered away. 

_ I want you. I want you - please - _

Greg's mouth seemed to make every inch of his skin take flame.  _ Oh god, we're kissing. It's real.  _ Trembling, Mycroft pushed his fingers through his bodyguard's hair. Greg wanted him, didn't fear the consequences, wouldn't hear 'if' - and there was nothing on earth that could help them now. He didn't want to hold back any longer.

He didn't want to keep telling himself this could never happen.

Months, assuming the universe could not possibly have created such a beautiful man and let him be gay; agonising days, imagining him in Anthea's arms; now he was in Mycroft's arms, and it was beginning - all of it. This was the very first day.

Shaking, Mycroft pulled Greg closer.

_ Oh fuck, kiss me... _

He opened his mouth to Greg's tongue; his whole body quivered as they kissed. His heart hammered in his chest.

_ Oh god, have me. Want me.  _

_ Show me. _

 

*

 

_ Finally. _

_ There you are, gorgeous. _

_ Let me in. _

Greg pulled away to breathe - and check his back, if he were being totally honest. The position he had gotten himself in came with a significant risk of injury to someone; Greg, if he moved wrong and put his back out, Mycroft, if he jerked forward without thinking about it.

He weighed his options for just a moment, briefly glanced at the chair, and decided to throw propriety out the window.

_ Fuck it. _ He wanted to feel Mycroft underneath him, pinned to the chair.

So Greg nudged long legs together and knelt on either side of them, joining Mycroft in the chair with an easy grin. It brought them impossibly closer, and as he settled his weight, Greg’s heart started pounding in his chest.

_ Yeah, that’s better. _ He leaned in and kissed Mycroft against, a little more demandingly this time.

 

*

 

Mycroft's face flushed with nerves and longing as Greg knelt across him. The reconnection of their lips sent relief rushing through his system - relief, joy and heat, his heart leaping in desperation. Greg's insistent kiss made him feel weak and wild at once; he responded in kind, even as he trembled. 

His hands came to rest on Greg's waist - careful, light, as if unsure he was allowed. As long moments of slow kissing went by, and the sounds alone began to arouse him, Mycroft moved his hands timidly to Greg's back. The body beneath his t-shirt was firm and warm and he'd never wanted to feel skin so much in his life. 

His tight, shy sound of enjoyment was lost between their lips. 

He wanted to kiss all night.

 

*

 

Greg was no stranger to taking things slow; long hours of snogging on the couch, gentle touches under the covers, slowly discovering every dip and plane of a new lover’s body.

He could feel the hesitation still, in the man under him. Or - not hesitation. Disbelief, perhaps.

_ Let me shake that out of you, gorgeous. _

_ I’m here, and I’m real. _

Pressing one last, sweet kiss to Mycroft’s lips, he pulled back with a gentle smile. “Not going anywhere,” he murmured, to quell any fears that might well up in his lover.

_ Lover. _

_ God. _

_ Yes. _

“Just - a bit of rearranging.” Telling himself that Mycroft had already seen everything he had to offer, Greg stripped his t-shirt off easily. He took Mycroft’s hands gently and laid them on his chest, holding them in place so he could feel Greg’s breath. “S’alright,” he murmured, meeting the man’s gaze with a soft smile. “You can touch. I want you to. Please.”

He dropped his hands away, leaving Mycroft to explore as he would. He knew there were plenty of things to explore; one lay under Mycroft’s right hand already. It was a jagged cross of a scar, one that Greg was very firmly not thinking about, focusing instead on the feel of Mycroft’s hands, trembling gently on his skin.

_ It’s okay, gorgeous. Go ahead and feel. _

 


	39. Patience

_ Holy Christ. _

Mycroft's heart detonated on the spot. One movement, and the t-shirt was gone - skin - warmth - his hands guided, placed. His expression wracked with longing.  _ 'You can touch. I want you to. Please.'  _ Mycroft couldn't breathe. He wanted to stroke his fingers and his palms and his mouth over every inch of the skin he could now see. 

Greg was beautiful. 

And it was alright - alright to touch.

Shaking, Mycroft touched. The very tips of his fingers moved across Greg in breathless round-eyed wonder - skin and scars, dark hair. His brain gave him paths of logic to follow. Collarbone scars - surgical - pin placement. Down here on Greg's side, an appendectomy. Mycroft had that one, too. It was his only one.

On Greg's biceps, he found marks that briefly stopped his breath - mirrored parallel lines, four of them, thick - no accident - done with purpose - Mycroft brushed his fingers and his mind across them, his heart pounding, looking up into the eyes of the man he was touching for the first time. 

_ The first time. _

_ There will be other times. _

_ God help me. _

They each had a past. Close, like this, those pasts would come into the light. There were things a lover saw that nobody else saw.

Mycroft's throat tightened. 

_ Show me,  _ he thought, his fingertips shaking as they stroked up to Greg's jaw. His eyes lingered on his lips, shock still coursing through his veins.  _ Oh god, you are beautiful... whatever happened, you are beautiful. _

"I want you," Mycroft heard his own mouth whispered, mortified in a heartbeat, flushing as he realised what he'd voiced. "Y-You are - I - "

 

*

 

Greg smiled warmly, gently, and stroked some of Mycroft’s hair off of his forehead in a tender gesture. “Good,” he murmured, carding his fingers through auburn strands. “I want you, too. Gorgeous.”

Some of the tension he hadn’t realized he had been carrying bled out as he saw the wonder and appreciation in Mycroft’s eyes. Even if it was just for his physique - Greg knew he was well-built, if nothing else - it was something.

That Mycroft wasn’t afraid to touch his scars, that he hadn’t recoiled in disgust… It soothed a small piece of Greg’s soul he hadn’t known was hurting. It was still coiled tightly, waiting for rejection, but he thought maybe he could get to the point where he could trust in someone’s desire of him.

Trust in Mycroft’s desire of him.

“We can take this at whatever pace you want, darlin’,” he murmured, half-smiling and eyes hooded lazily. “Whatever you want. You just want this - that’s fine. Just a bit of exploring, a bit of a snog - that’s perfect. Take this at your pace, yeah?”

_ Whatever you need. _

 

*

 

Mycroft's gaze flickered; his mouth opened a little, the words stuck.

_ Yes,  _ he told himself.  _ Slow - sensible. Kiss, touch, time to reflect.  _

_ That is best. _

Tentatively he stroked Greg's jaw, trying to keep the other thoughts from his face - those other, softer, more heated thoughts - thoughts of skin, sheets and the smallest hours of the morning; Greg's body, warm; those protective hands, gently opening his thighs. Greg's mouth, his eyes - his scent - what he might sound like when something felt too good to stay quiet.

Mycroft's throat squeezed a little. He swallowed, loosening the muscles, and whispered,

"Y-Yes. Yes, I - wouldn't wish to rush - "

The others would return at any moment. It was a wonder they hadn't already. Mrs Collins had now apparently taken eight hours to complete the weekly supermarket shop, and God only knew had happened to Anthea. If Mycroft was in any way a half decent employer, he'd have made some rather concerned phone-calls by now.

He shouldn't now be contemplating the locking of his bedroom door, only to open it again with the morning light.

 

*

 

Greg hummed softly, closing his eyes and turning into the hand on his jaw. “Of course,” he rumbled, low in his chest, “if you want to move this to the bed, see where that takes us… you won’t hear a complaint from me, gorgeous.”

Finding the balancing point between taking the lead and rushing Mycroft into something he wasn’t ready for was a challenge, but a challenge that Greg felt equal to. Encouragement, that was the key. Let the man know that his touch was desired, that his arousal was mirrored.

He opened his eyes just enough to meet Mycroft’s gaze and let him see the building heat in it. “Whatever you want,” he purred, smiling lazily.

 

*

 

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat. He felt heat flood his face, and realised far too late that he probably couldn't have given a more emphatic yes if he'd gasped it aloud. 

_ Bed. Together. _

His heart ached.  _ Oh god, for once - just to - skin - touch -  _

They should wait. They should let this move slowly, with care - he should give Greg time to make sure this was what they wanted,  _ both  _ wanted...

_ But I want. _

_ I want this already. I've wanted for months.  _

Swallowing, gathering together every scrap of courage he'd ever had, Mycroft nervously pulled Greg down to him. Their lips met - slow, soft, the stroke of damp lips that Mycroft wanted to hear overlaid with deep breath and moans.

Kissing - familiar - gave him the courage to find the words.

"Please," he whispered against Greg's lips, when they'd parted. His fingers shook. "If you... if you wished, I... I would..."  _ God help me.  _ He closed his eyes, letting the words shiver from his mouth. "Sleep here tonight. In my bed."

 

*

 

_ Oh, Christ, yes. _

“Yes,” Greg breathed, brushing his lips over Mycroft’s. “God, yes.”

He smiled a little and nosed the man’s cheek. “Am I permitted to grab some sleeping pants, or am I to sleep in the buff?” he asked cheekily. 

Frankly, either was fine with him. The more skin the better. On the other hand, he doubted Mycroft was yet comfortable sleeping nude beside another person, and having one person clothed and the other bare nearly always carried an awkward sort of tension with it.

His hands found Mycroft’s shoulders, still covered in shirt and waistcoat, and massaged gently. It was as natural as breathing to touch the other man, in a thousand idle ways.

Greg knew that wouldn’t change, and he was glad of it.

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes darkened in a breath; his expression flickered.

"Do not tease me," he begged in a whisper, his heart straining against his ribs. Just the touch of Greg's hands through two layers of fabric had already sent his pulse climbing. "I - want you. Not just to sleep."

_ Must I say it?  _ Mycroft didn't know if he could. The thoughts in his head wouldn't shape themselves into words - thoughts of Greg's body, warm and comfortable on top of him - thoughts of moving together - Greg as close as another human could come, Greg inside his skin, pleasure burning between them. 

"Please," he breathed again, shaking. "I want to touch."

 

*

 

“Sorry, posh,” Greg murmured softly, nuzzling Mycroft easily. “Couldn’t help m’self. You’re too adorable not to tease a little bit. I know what you mean.” He kissed him swiftly, just once, before sliding off the chair.

He stood easily and offered a hand, smiling with bright eyes. “Come on, then, gorgeous. Up you get.”

The sun had just about sunk down, leaving the room bathed in lamplight that mingled with the last glow of twilight. Greg stared at Mycroft, gazing at the lines of his silhouette, limned in the quiet light.

_ Breathtaking. _

_ Gorgeous. _

_ Mine. _

_ Christ, you’re mine. _

_ How’d I get so lucky, huh? _

 

*

 

As Greg eased from his lap, Mycroft flushed. His obvious state of arousal was now impossible to hide - then, he thought, Greg was quite likely to have noticed it by now. Nervously he took the hand that was offered to him, letting Greg draw him up out of the chair. Their fingers laced. 

Close to the bed, Mycroft hesitated. He stepped away from Greg for a single moment to lock the door, his fingers careful on the catch. He didn't want to be disturbed - not for anything. He didn't care when the others were back. They could explain themselves to him in the morning.

For now, he wanted to be with the man he loved.

He'd never been so aware of his body in his life. Lying down felt as unfamiliar as if he'd never done it before. He'd slept in this bed for six years, and it felt brand new beneath him. His suit trousers were uncomfortably tight around his burgeoning erection, his breath a little short, and the feeling of Greg settling down atop the covers beside him made his heart jump and writhe inside his chest.

_ Oh god. _

_ Oh god, we are - we're about to -  _

Moving closer, shivering, Mycroft reached shy hands for Greg - one to his waist, the other gently to his chest. Longing overwhelmed him at once, and he leant towards Greg's neck with his mouth, placing his lips upon it as he trembled, kissing Greg, tasting Greg, his breath tightening.

"I barely remember how this goes," he confessed, all his senses reeling with Greg's scent. "I might need your patience..."

 

*

 

A litany of soft noises and heavy breaths left through Greg’s parted lips as Mycroft explored the skin of his neck. Shivers raced over his skin, and he drew the other man closer instinctively.

_ God, yes. _

“S’fine,” he mumbled, tilting his chin back. “Got plenty ‘f patience.” A low rumble reverberated in his chest. “Mm. Yeah, that’s - that’s nice. Doin’ spectacular, darlin’...” His hands roamed over expensive cloth, rubbing Mycroft’s back and sides gently, massaging lightly.

Internally, he thought they were both wearing far too many clothes, but that was a choice he’d leave up to his partner. There was leading, and there was pushing. Greg never wanted to push.

If this was what Mycroft wanted now, that was what they would do, and Greg would savor every single moment of it.

 

*

 

Greg's hands were wonderful - slow, gentle, maddeningly light through Mycroft's clothes. His voice, too - the mumbled praise - Mycroft's head whirled as he tried to cope with it, shivering as he nudged Greg cautiously onto his back.  _ Easier this way.  _ Mycroft rested one leg between Greg's, leaning on him shyly and repeating the motions of his mouth that seemed to cause the most reaction.

_ Can I take my shirt off?  _ Mycroft didn't know. He didn't dare. He nuzzled his way down to Greg's collarbones instead, exploring them gently with his mouth, kissing the scars he'd found and stroking his tongue across Greg's skin. 

His cock nudged against Greg's thigh, ignored as Mycroft moved down to Greg's stomach. He brushed his nose through Greg's hair, breathing him in, heart now beating so quickly it made him feel dizzy.

 

*

 

_ Oh Jesus fucking Christ. _

The muscles of Greg’s stomach jumped under Mycroft’s touch and his breath stuttered out.  _ How does that feel so good? _

He could feel the hot press of Mycroft’s cock against his leg, heated even through trousers and jeans. It reminded him of his own arousal, pressed uncomfortably against denim. He set that aside, though, when his hands wandered down and found Mycroft still bloody dressed.

_ None of that. _

_ I am not going to lay here with your nose that close to my cock and let you be fully clothed. Not having it. _

Greg sat up and pushed Mycroft back a little, breathing hard through his nose. His fingers traced over the buttons of the waistcoat, and he caught Mycroft’s gaze. “May I? Please?” he asked softly.

_ Let me see you. Please. _

 

*

 

"Oh god." Mycroft inhaled, shaking, and crawled back up the bed for Greg's hands to reach him. "Yes - y-yes - "

He'd not been undressed by someone else's hands in longer than he could remember. He didn't know who'd done it last. He didn't care. They were gone now, vaporised into the ether, and there was only Greg.

Nervously he reached for Greg's mouth.

They kissed as Greg undid his clothing - the waistcoat buttons smooth and easy, then the shirt beneath them a little more delicate. Mycroft's shaking increased with each button undone.  _ I want you, I want you, I want you,  _ pounded through his mind and his heart and his veins. 

 

*

 

“Steady,” Greg murmured in between kisses. “I’ve got you, darlin’. I’m here. S’fine.” He pushed the fine fabric off Mycroft’s shoulders and tossed it away (Anthea would be appalled by such casual treatment of the expensive clothing, he was sure), eyes lighting up as he took in the newly-exposed skin.

“God, your  _ freckles _ ,” he breathed, only half-aware he had said it. His hands swept gently over Mycroft’s shoulders and upper arms, brushing softly, as though the man was made of spun glass.

 

*

 

Mycroft's cheeks burned at once. The sweep of Greg's hands was glorious - fingers on his bare skin, stroking him - a lover -  _ oh god, my lover...  _ pleasure skittered across his expression, enjoyment open and unconcealed in his face.

"G-Genetic," he managed, embarrassed. "My hair was... more red in my youth.  They aren't - off-putting?"

 

*

 

“Off-- are you  _ kidding? _ ” Greg asked with a brilliant grin. “They’re  _ amazing _ .  _ Jesus. _ ” He traced random patterns in the ones on Mycroft’s shoulder, eyes bright with delight.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, looking up after a moment, still grinning. He leaned in and kissed the man sweetly. “Absolutely divine.”

 

*

 

"You are insane," Mycroft whispered, even as his eyes shone. "Utterly insane..." 

Other boys at school had teased him for his 'spots'; even a few hours outdoors in the sun were enough to bring the damn things out in abundance. As a teenager, the only thing he'd liked about his body was that he'd somehow avoiding having freckles on his face. He'd seen it as the universe's one mercy to him. At university and in young adulthood, he'd tried to arrange liaisons in darkness so as to minimise their obviousness.

Now Greg was stroking them, kissing Mycroft as if he had some coveted feature. 

"If you like them, there - are..."  _ Christ.  _ He'd been about to say 'more elsewhere', then realised how bloody filthy that sounded. He didn't intend it that way. He pulled the sentiment quickly into some more acceptable form, shivering at the feeling of his bare stomach pressed to Greg's. "I have them on my legs, too. They're - rather endemic."

 

*

 

“Lucky me,” Greg purred, leaning forward and nosing at the ones along the juncture of neck and shoulder. He hummed and kissed the freckles idly, hands stroking Mycroft’s sides.

“Christ, gorgeous. You’re so bloody good-looking. It’s not fair to the rest of us, it really isn’t,” he murmured, letting his words go without too much input from his brain. “And then this - like a constellation - no, a fucking  _ galaxy _ \- made solid and come down here, just for me.”

“Lucky me,” he repeated, stealing another kiss. His arms wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, pulling him in close.

 

*

 

Mycroft made a small sound as Greg began to kiss his freckles. His neck was desperately sensitive, and combined with the caress of hands along his sides, it made his cock throb in desperation against Greg's thigh. Nothing so chaste should feel so good.

He liked Greg talking. Nothing distressed him more than a quiet lover - so much silence, so many thoughts to fill it. Greg's voice made him feel safe.

His kiss made him feel feather-light.

As their bare chests pressed, Mycroft shook with the sensation.  _ First time.  _ Greg's body felt reassuring and solid against his, his skin warm to the touch. Already Mycroft wanted to feel the wrap of their bare legs, that soft shock of full skin contact.

They kissed, and he began to stroke Greg's stomach with his hands - slow, brushing his dark trail of hair, rubbing gently as their tongues flashed.

_ God help me, if I could come simply kissing you... _

 

*

 

A soft groan worked its way between them, having escaped from Greg’s throat. He pushed a little into Mycroft’s touch, hips arching upwards with the motion.

_ Slow. Slow. Let him set the pace. _

_ There’s plenty of time. _

As a sort of displacement activity, Greg’s hands began to run over Mycroft’s back, nails scratching faintly - just enough to stimulate, not even enough to leave trails. He alternated between nails and sweeps of fingertips, enjoying their kissing for what it was.

He didn’t think he had ever enjoyed simply kissing someone so much. Mycroft’s mouth was like heaven, the shyness and hesitancy only making adoration bloom in Greg’s chest. He could kiss this man forever.

 

*

 

A long, delicious shiver coursed its way up Mycroft's spine. Tingles of enjoyment seemed to glitter in the trails of Greg's scratches. He stifled his first few moans, stiffening, breathing hard, but soon was incapable of hiding them. He didn't  _ want _ to hide them. He was starting to want Greg to know what this was doing to him - what he wanted - what he'd laid here on his own, dreaming about, for nights on end. 

Lying in this bed, he'd imagined every possible pleasurable thing happening to Greg. He'd envisioned rendering the man speechless a thousand times. When he was restless, drained after work and struggling to settle, it was fantasies of Greg that relaxed him. Some were so potent he needed his own touch before he could sleep. The thought of riding Greg was still so evocative it took his breath: his bodyguard gazing up at him, holding his waist, breath broken into groans as Mycroft worked them both slowly towards orgasm.

He could feel Greg hard even through jeans. 

_ To have you in my hands, in my mouth... to feel you touch me, too...  _

_ Oh, hell... _

_ Oh Christ, I want you... _

Reaching down between them, not breaking the kiss, Mycroft slid a gentle hand across the firm bulge he could feel beneath the denim, eliciting a low groan from the man.  _ Fuck. Yes.  _ He began to undo Greg’s jeans - deft, careful fingers working their way through the fastenings, shivering as he did.  _ Undoing your jeans. Oh god, let me undo them every night. I want sex with you, I want to come for you, I want to hear you moan...  _

When Greg’s zip was undone, the fabric parted to relieve the pressure on his erection, Mycroft fumbled for the fastening of his own trousers. He moved through the buttons quickly, emitting a faint sound at the feel of loosening fabric, then shifted his weight atop Greg's body. 

Stirring, still kissing Greg as if he’d never get a second chance, he brought the opened fronts of their trousers together. Their cocks nuzzled through warm soft fabric alone. 

Mycroft’s first whimper was clearly audible into the kiss. He began to move, timidly, rubbing them together in the instinctive motion of gentle sex, feeling his pulse ramp upwards with every rock of his hips. He shook, letting out a tight moan of enjoyment between their mouths, praying this was good for Greg as well. 

 

*

 

_ Oh god. God, yes. _

Greg’s mind went blank as Mycroft’s fingers undid his jeans, and it burst into fireworks as their hips met. It was all he could do to keep kissing, a little sloppy, a lot heated, and very passionate.  _ God, darlin’ yes, just like that. _ He drank in Mycroft’s noises greedily, feeling dizzy and a tad delirious.

_ How can just this feel so good? _ Frissions of pleasure sparked every time their cocks met.

He was pretty sure skin to skin would ruin him forever.

He didn’t care.

One hand pressed flat between creamy, freckled shoulder blades, the other anchored on a hip as Greg lowered himself down backwards, pulling his lover down with him. The new angle allowed them both more leverage, and drew a gasped “oh  _ fuck _ yes” from his lips. 

Legs spread a little to accommodate the weight on his pelvis and allow freedom of movement, Greg began matching Mycroft’s movements almost unconsciously, still holding him close and kissing him needily.  _ Oh god. Let this be good for him.  _

_ Fuck, I have to know. _

He pulled back, just a little. “You alright, darlin’?” he rumbled, lips against Mycroft’s ear.

 


	40. Lover

"Yes..." Mycroft's throat gripped around the word, barely letting him produce it. "Yes, I - I'm fine..."

He shivered as he swallowed, suddenly overcome with a need to see Greg's eyes - to be certain this was real. He drew back enough to take Greg's face into his hands; he gazed down at his bodyguard with an expression of almost desperate wonder.

"Promise me you're alright," he gasped, overcome. "Promise me I'm not taking advantage of you."

 

*

 

Greg’s expression morphed into something that was a mix of arousal, adoration, and amusement, all tied up with a fond smile. “I promise I’m alright,” he said soothingly, reaching up and stroking his fingertips along Mycroft’s jaw. _Silly man. Wonderful, adorable, ridiculous man._

“I want this,” he hummed, turning his head to brush a kiss along a thumb. His hand dropped to Mycroft’s shoulder. “I want _you_.”

He smiled softly, gazing sideways up at his lover, eyes dark with heat. “You couldn’t take advantage of me if you tried, darlin’.”

He turned his face back towards Mycroft’s, brown meeting blue. “Told you, gorgeous. I want this. No ‘if’. But right now, we do what you wanna do. You tell me if something feels good or doesn’t.” He smiled cheekily, eyes sparkling. “I do better with feedback. Constructive criticism.” The smile became a grin. “There’ll be a survey at the end. Entered to win a prize if you fill it out.”

 

*

 

_You utter rascal._

_A survey._

Mycroft's mouth curved with delight. His eyes lit from within, bright and full to the brim with affection, and as he looked down into Greg's gaze, he had the keen and overwhelming realisation they would be happy.

Not just in bed - everywhere, any moment that they were alone. Greg Lestrade was the warm and steadfast core of comfort around which Mycroft wanted to build all his happiness, and lying here with him chest-to-chest was the most exquisite feeling of freedom that Mycroft could remember.

Their only challenge would be hiding this.

"You are a scamp," Mycroft told him, eyes shining. He stroked his thumb across the soft rasp of Greg's stubble, adoring every damn delicious inch of him. "I'd rather like to do what _'we'_ want to do. Seeing as I have so far failed on every single count to impose my authority upon you, and I very much doubt that will ever change..."

 

*

 

“I prefer rogue, thank you,” Greg said with a grin. He hummed easily and lifted his chin to push into the touch. Mycroft probably had a point; they weren't exactly a typical employee-employer pair even before this, and they never would be.

But Greg didn't want to give Mycroft the reins here because of authority. He just wanted the man to be happy, be pleased.

“ _We_ ,” he said easily, “are easily pleased, you’ll find.” He canted his hips upwards with a grin. “Clearly.” His cock was at full hardness and straining at his boxers.

“I just want you,” he said, grin gentling into a fond smile. His hands settled on Mycroft’s hips, thumbs circling the bumps of his hip bones soothingly. “However you want. Any way you want. We’ve time for it all.”

 

*

 

"'Rogue' will be quite acceptable, I think..." Mycroft murmured. He bit his lip as he listened to Greg, eyes shining, and laid a hand over the fingers at his hip bone. Greg's touch left him feeling almost incandescent; the only question was where to begin. He supposed there were a few layers left to deal with before this relationship could truly turn its back on 'professional' now and forever.

Stirring back from Greg's touch, he eased himself slowly off the bed.

The sight of Greg lying there, shirtless and hard, made his stomach contract.

"The weeks I've imagined you here," Mycroft said, softly. "God help me, I was - so sure you had no interest in me... so certain. I couldn't believe a man like you would ever... _ever..."_

He slipped his thumbs quietly down the sides of his trousers, beneath his underwear too, and with a graceful bend eased them down. The nervous thumping of his heart didn't show on his face.

"That night you carried me," he murmured, as he stepped from his clothing - naked, shy and scattered in toffee freckles, his hair almost fiercely red against the pale skin of his stomach. "I... couldn't cope, Greg. I couldn't bear the thought that we would never - ... that I was play to you. Nothing more."

He climbed back onto the bed with quiet grace, moved close once more, and bent low to kiss Greg's stomach.

His fingers curled with care into the waistband of Greg's jeans.

"The night at the restaurant," he breathed against Greg's skin. "Afterwards... standing in my door... God almighty, I wanted you so badly I could hardly breathe..."

As he pulled down Greg's jeans and boxers, kissing Greg's stomach and onto his thighs, Mycroft's heart began to pound in his throat.

"This is insanity," he whispered, even as pushed the clothing off the bed, relieved Greg of his socks, and kissed his way back up his bare legs. "This is immoral of me. I should have more resolve."

_Scars._

_God above. More scars._

Mycroft kissed them as he passed them, closing his eyes. _I know. I know, and I shan't ask. These are yours and I know what they are, and I will never ask you._

As he reached Greg's cock, he lowered his head and kissed at its base - then stroked a long and shining stripe from root to tip, his tongue flat and soft, watching Greg up the length of his torso as he did.

"Months in my service," he murmured at its tip, letting his mouth stroke each sound. "Now I would like to spend a little while in yours."

 

*

 

Greg listened to Mycroft’s words, pulse rushing in his ears so loudly he had to strain to hear.

_God, gorgeous. Months of wanting._

_Like me._

_Pair of fools, we are. Perfectly matched._

His hips lifted automatically as his jeans and boxers came down and off. His brain had no say in the matter, too focused on processing the picture Mycroft made in the soft lamplight. His cream-colored skin fairly glowed, as though he were carved of marble.

But he was here, with Greg. Soft and warm and supple and _here_.

Greg found his legs trembling minutely as Mycroft passed over the scars on his inner thigh - pressed kisses against them - moved on. He let out a stuttering breath. _Thank you._

_Thank you for moving on._

_Don’t ask me. I can’t explain them here - like this -_

His thoughts cut off abruptly as Mycroft’s tongue found his shaft. His head snapped back, thumping against the mattress. It was accompanied by a gasped “oh, _fuck_ ”.

_Oh, Christ._

His hands gripped the sheets so they would stay away from a certain redhead’s hair.

“W-works for me,” he managed at last, breathing hard. _Fuck, not for long though._

Every part of him felt like it was electrified, with a concentration on where his lover’s mouth was. He wanted this to last, to make it good for Mycroft (who clearly hadn’t had someone in far too long), but _fuck_.

 

*

 

Mycroft huffed, passing his tongue between his lips. "Mm," he murmured, "I intend to," and swirled his tongue in a quick wet coil around the head of Greg's cock.

At the same time he stroked a hand up onto Greg's lower stomach, brushing across his skin. _Mmhm. You are beautiful... and you are mine until the morning._

 

*

 

Greg huffed out a sharp breath at the sensation of Mycroft’s tongue. It was both too much and not enough - too much sensation and yet he needed _more_.

His hips bucked up just a fraction before he wrestled himself back under control.

_Let him lead. Steady._

He concentrated quite hard on his breathing, trying to slow it or at least make it ease up. There was nothing to be done for his rushing pulse, he knew that.

_Dear Christ. Let me last. I’m not a bloody teenager anymore._

 

*

 

Mycroft chuckled softly against the tip of Greg's cock, gazing at him along his torso.

"Suddenly you have vast reserves of control, do you?" he hummed, tickling quiet circles with a fingertip from Greg's navel to the base of his cock. "And where is this magnificent self-discipline when I have to talk to the fucking chancellor?"

He wrapped his hand around Greg's cock, letting his tongue steal between his lips to lap in tantalising flicks just beneath the head.

 

*

 

Greg groaned, and it was a mixture of pleasure and exasperation. “Could you _not_ mention that man while you’ve got my cock in your hand?” he pleaded. His spine arched a little with every small motion of Mycroft’s tongue.

He retained enough of his control to add, “Or f-frankly, while we’re in _any_ state of undress, your hand and my cock and their proximity notwithstanding - oh, _fuck_ , yes -”

He was going to put holes in the lovely, expensive sheets at this rate, with how hard he was gripping them.

 _That_ would be fun to explain to Mrs. Collins.

And if Greg never ever thought about her with his cock in Mycroft’s mouth again, it would be too soon.

 

*

 

This was far too much fun. Mycroft smirked as he continued to lick, moving his hand up and down Greg's cock far too slowly, far too lightly, wanting more of those delicious groans.

"Why?" he murmured. "You're going to be remembering this next time we encounter _that man._ I imagine you'll be trying to catch my eye as well... because, as we've established this evening, you are a rogue..."

He reached up with his free hand, slid his fingers beneath Greg's and loosened his grip from the sheets. He brought the hand to the back of his head.

 

*

 

Greg’s fingers slid through the red strands automatically, gripping gently. “And you’re a _tease_ ,” he said accusingly. “You’re going to pay for this, mark my fucking words - _fuck_!”

His hips jerked up as Mycroft’s tongue found a particularly sensitive spot along his shaft, and he let loose a groan.

 

*

 

Mycroft shivered slowly.

"I hope so," he murmured, flashed his tongue across that little spot once more, and drew Greg's cock smoothly into his mouth.

His eyes flickered shut as he slid as far down as his gag reflex would permit him for now, covering the rest with his hand. He rubbed against the underside with his tongue, humming with quiet satisfaction as another shiver coursed between his shoulders.

 

*

 

Greg’s breath huffed out in short little bursts, chin lifting because he knew, he _knew_ that if he looked down and saw Mycroft sucking his cock he _was_ going to come right then and there. Best to focus on the ceiling and think of _nothing, nothing,_ until the pleasure had eased back from ‘imminent threat’ to merely ‘overwhelming’.

“Fuck,” he groaned, nails combing through Mycroft’s hair on impulse. “Fuck, your _mouth_ …”

 

*

 

The little scratches over Mycroft's scalp were divine. All the hours he'd spent imagining this didn't live up to the real thing - to the feel of Greg's cock thick within his mouth, heavy on his tongue, nor to the sound of him groaning and swearing.

He took his time in building rhythm and depth - it had been years since last he'd done this, but it returned to him more and more with every moment. He kept his eyes turned up the bed to ensure his efforts were being met with satisfaction.

 

*

 

Greg risked lifting his head to look down at Mycroft. As soon as he did, he - well, didn’t _regret_ it, couldn’t, with Mycroft looking thoroughly debauched and fucking _beautiful_ with Greg’s cock between his lips - but he was certainly re-thinking the advisability of it, because his pleasure ratcheted up off all scales known to men when their eyes met.

“Fuck,” he growled, low in his chest. His hand tightened in Mycroft’s hair, pulling him up and off and back.

Greg sat up, using an elbow for leverage. He held Mycroft carefully, yet mercilessly, leaving the man nowhere to go. “That,” he breathed, that bass growl still in his voice, “is fucking fantastic. You are bloody amazing, and if I don’t stop you right now, I’m going to come right down your throat. Now if that’s what you want, I’m happy to do that.” His grip tightened minutely.

“Is that what you want?” he purred, smiling wickedly, eyes dark and dancing. “Want to watch me fall apart under you, taste me all over your tongue? Or do you want something else from me, pretty posh?”

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes flashed; his smirk curled from ear to ear.

"And how long in your head have you been terming me 'pretty posh'?" he enquired, quite comfortable in Greg's hold, and more than willing to engage in mid-coital wit. "I've had 'sir' for the last time, have I? Shame. I was getting used to it. All good things must come to an end, I suppose."

 

*

 

 _Git,_ Greg thought fondly.

“You’ve just had my cock in your mouth,” he pointed out, amused. “I don’t think that’s the time to be reminding you of your position, is it?” He leaned forward, tilting Mycroft’s head back a little more.

He smirked. “Maybe just before I take _your_ cock in my mouth, _sir_.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's gaze glittered with affection as he looked into Greg's eyes. It wasn't a surprise to discover his bodyguard's playful streak did not stop at the bedroom door.

"That sounds rather promising," he murmured. "Alas that you'll have to overpower me first."

 

*

 

Greg snorted, grinning. “Oh, yeah, _that’ll_ be a challenge,” he drawled. He released his grip to comb his fingers through Mycroft’s hair affectionately. “You’re such a formidable foe, honestly. Don’t know why I’m even paid to be here. Superfluous, really.”

He smiled down at the other man. “Now, are you going to get on your back so I can get your cock in my mouth, or am I going to have to do everything myself?”

 

*

 

Rich, Mycroft thought, for a man who had so far been rather at the receiving end of the night's efforts.

"You _are_ superfluous," he murmured, leaning into the fingers that stroked through his hair. "I'm not going to be assassinated. My superiors are paying your agency an eye-watering monthly fee for you to amuse me in meetings with the chancellor - and now keep me warm at night. If that's how they wish to spend their money, I shan't question them."

Leaning close to brush his nose across Greg's cheek, he then tipped over onto his back and stretched, making himself quite comfortable.

"Kiss me?" he murmured, reaching for Greg.

 

*

 

“Always,” Greg replied with a soft smile. As he leaned down and caught Mycroft’s lips in a deep kiss, he realized that what he meant was _forever_.

The thought didn’t scare him as much as it should have.

They kissed easily, languidly, and one of his hands crept between them. Lower, lower still, until it found its prize: Mycroft’s cock, still hard and eager.

Greg smiled into the kiss and began stroking with light, teasing touches, hips deliberately angled up and back so that the man beneath him wouldn’t be able to arch up and relieve tension that way.

 

*

 

As they kissed, Mycroft found himself experiencing an unsettling and addictive sensation: his body relaxing as his heart sped. His muscles softened and quietened, even as he grew aware of the first faint note of worry arising in his mind. Giving pleasure was easy. Touching Greg, kissing him, exploring him, was a joy Mycroft had wanted for months.

Receiving it felt oddly more vulnerable - feeling pleasure wasn't something he'd shared in years. As Greg kissed him, his mouth and his skin and his body began to settle, taking comfort in this familiar feeling, even as his stomach tightened and his breath shallowed.

The first stroke made him shake slightly; he inhaled.

_Smiling. Stroking me. God._

The light touches were settling - just enough - just this for now.

Mycroft realised with a strange flush that he wanted this way: kissing like this, gently stroking like this. He didn't want to look up at a bedroom ceiling and feel fragile.

He shook as he brushed his fingers through Greg's hair. His other arm went carefully around Greg's waist, holding him.

When a moment was taken between them for air, he managed to whisper, "Like this... please - "

He could feel his expression growing tight. Heat was rising in his face; the little strokes made him ache.

"Stay up here... I want to kiss you. I - want to see you."

 

*

 

Greg smiled gently, feeling his heart swell with Mycroft’s words. “Okay, gorgeous,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the man’s cheek. “Okay. I’ll stay right here. Not going anywhere.”

_Not now, not ever._

He pressed kisses along Mycroft’s jaw, sometimes teasing with the rasp of his own stubble. It was slow, easy, and gentle, like the stroking of his hand.

Said hand gripped just a little more firmly, moving from teasing to gentle. Greg wanted to find what made Mycroft gasp, made him moan. He wanted to hoard those fragile noises, keep them safe.

 

*

 

 

Mycroft's chin lifted nervously; he trembled as he offered his neck to Greg's mouth. He was desperately sensitive there. He had no doubt what the gentle stroke of stubble and the brush of Greg's hand would do to him in combination - and in a shameful shortness of time. The gentle constriction of Greg's fingers had already forced him to bite into his own lip to stay quiet, trembling all over at the searingly soft pleasure.

Attempting to rock upwards through instinct, Mycroft discovered that the press of Greg's hips kept him from doing so. The realisation caught his breath in his throat. He began to stir, not in an effort to escape but to _feel_ it, that gentle pinning, his head whirling as he fought harder than ever to control the need to moan. _Held. Stroked. Kissing me._

_Oh, christ._

_Greg._

_My Greg._

_Mine - touching me._ Greg wanted him to feel this, wanted him to come, wanted him to give. His back was warm beneath Mycroft's nervous grip, his weight was comfortable and his touch was perfect. The slowness of it made Mycroft want to pant and sob.

His lip was soon white between his teeth.

His hips strained anxiously against Greg's weight, desperate for it not to be lifted. His breath was now rough, edged with sounds he was struggling to hold onto - tiny flickers of moans. He could feel his stomach tightening.

_Don't stop. Don't stop. For god's sake, don't stop._

 

*

 

Greg could feel the tremors start, caught a glimpse of Mycroft’s lip caught between his teeth. “None of that,” he breathed softly. He kissed the corner of his mouth, brought his free hand up to thumb gently at the trapped lip.

“I want to hear those beautiful sounds, darlin’. Let me hear what I’m doin’ to you,” he purred quietly. His rhythm didn’t change one iota; no change in pressure or speed, no shift in his weight. _Just like this. Gentle. Slow._

He pressed a kiss along Mycroft’s pulse, rubbing his stubble there, too.

_Let me hear you._

_Fall apart for me, gorgeous._

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against skin. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's body burned with the gentle words. He shook harder than ever at the rasp of Greg's stubble, gasping something that was almost a sob, feeling his toes curl in desperation.

He couldn't hold it any longer.

His moans came tight and soft and frantic, fingers digging into Greg's shoulder. Sudden heat flooded through his stomach. His back arched.

As he broke, he broke with a whimper.

_"Greg...!"_

 

*

 

Greg smiled against Mycroft’s pulse, still laying gentle kisses there. _My name. My name, on your lips, while you fall apart for me._

_Gorgeous._

He worked his lover through it, not letting up one bit until he felt the last of the tremors settle down.

When Mycroft had had a chance to catch a little bit of his breath, Greg smiled and pressed a kiss into the divot between his collarbones.

“Okay, sweetheart?” he asked gently.

 

*

 

Mycroft's chest heaved beneath Greg's lips; pink patches had appeared within his freckles.

As he spoke, he shook.

"F-Forgive me - I..." His voice tightened with embarrassment, turning his face into Greg's hair. _God help me. Minutes._ Then, even imagined dreams of Greg had been enough to finish him quickly and powerfully. He shouldn't now wonder how the real thing had now left him feeling like a river had rushed through him in the space of seconds. Trembling, he kissed Greg's forehead and tried to breathe. "Y-You are - your touch is - "

 

*

 

“Shhh,” Greg hushed gently, smiling. He turned his face up and nosed the bottom of Mycroft’s jaw, then moved up a little to kiss him. “Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He pulled back and grinned, eyes bright. “Months of waiting for sex with me will do that to a bloke, it seems. I must be something special.” He kissed his lover’s flushed cheek. “Just like you.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart thudded softly as Greg kissed him. He leant up into it, blushing, feeling Greg's back shyly with his fingertips. _My lover. My gentle lover. My mischief. My Greg._

He shivered at the gentle tease, his gaze flickering. A small smile curved his lips.

"You are special." Stirring, he let his hand stroke down Greg's side to his waist. "I want - f-for you. Relief." He brushed his mouth across Greg's, fingers brushing to his hip bones - caressing, light and sleepy after his climax. "Tell me."

 

*

  


A low hum reverberated in Greg’s chest as he thought about that. “Mm… here,” he murmured, rolling over to lay beside Mycroft. With gentle pulls and nudges, they ended up chest to chest, both on their sides.

He smiled and brushed his nose along Mycroft’s. “Help me,” he whispered, taking Mycroft’s hand and guiding it to his cock. He wrapped both their hands around it with a low, pleased noise, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation.

 

*

 

Mycroft curled his hand into place at once, caressing his mouth slowly over Greg's. "Of course..." he whispered - then, on a thought, shifted gently. "One moment..."

He turned briefly to the bedside drawer, opened it and from inside pulled a bottle - calling itself _natural organic gel._ It could be mistaken for a botanical shampoo. Mycroft pooled a little in his palm, nestled back into Greg's arms and reached for his cock, spreading the slickness with a long, slow stroke. He kept his grip snug and his fingers light, and pressed his mouth gently to Greg's.

"You are wonderful," he whispered. "You are beautiful."

 

*

 

“Oh, fuck - Myc, that’s - God, yeah, just like that,” Greg panted, pressing his forehead to Mycroft’s for a moment.

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

At this rate, he wasn’t going to last too long, himself. First oral sex, then watching his gorgeous lover fall to pieces under him, now this?

Yeah. This wasn’t going to take long at all.

He turned his head a little and kissed Mycroft, maybe a little desperately. Low noises got lost in the kiss. Some were half-mumbled words, others were just noise.

 

*

 

Mycroft pressed his forehead back. He met Greg's kiss with passion, his heart pounding, working his hand in a steady rhythm that could speed or slow with Greg's guidance. The mumbling was so affecting he found himself almost short of breath, wrapping his other arm around Greg's shoulders to pull him close.

"Yes," he whispered, softly. He kissed his lover's mouth, murmuring with each fragile breath. "Shhh... that's it... show me. Let me give you what you want. Let me look after you."

He swiped his thumb across the head on each upstroke, a flash of sensation that he'd given himself a hundred times while lying here, tormented by thoughts of Greg. Now the man was wrapped in his arms, and they were kissing as that precious first climax came closer.

"Sleep here," Mycroft whispered, brushing his tongue gently along the seam of Greg's lips. "Sleep in my bed. Rest with me. Let me wake you in the morning..."

 

*

 

“Oh, God, yes,” Greg gasped, panting hard. His hips rocked steadily, pushing his cock into the wet warmth of their hands. “Yes, fuck, I want that - want you -” He groaned and kissed Mycroft again, slow and deep.

Heat began to coil low in his stomach, strengthened by every movement, every touch and stroke and flick.

His eyes shut once more and he tightened his grip on himself, cursing under his breath at the increased friction. “Fuck,” he growled into the kiss, demanding and heated.

 

*

 

Taking the steady rocking as his guide, Mycroft pulled Greg ever closer and kept his fist moving in rhythm with Greg's, breathing in his lover's ardent breaths. He let his grasp gently tighten; he murmured against Greg's mouth, his eyes closed, his pulse as hard and fast as if he were approaching a second climax himself.

"I want you, too... I want to be your comfort. Your relief. I want to learn what drives you wild... I want to give that to you, care for you, your body, your needs... I want you to ache when you see me."

He kissed Greg - hard, desperate and almost bruising.

"I want to make you happy," he breathed, half the sounds lost in their kiss. "I want you. I want you so much."

 

*

 

Mycroft’s voice was going to be the end of him, Greg realized. The absolute and utter end of him. Especially like this  - low, a little rough, private.

Just for him.

_Mine. All mine._

The friction - Mycroft’s _voice_ \- the warmth - the fierce kiss - it was all pushing Greg to that shining edge. Pleasure built in him like a wave, heralded by a desperate moan of “Close, fuck, _close_ ,” muttered against Mycroft’s mouth.

“Fuck - I-I need - fuck, _please_ -” Unbidden, his free hand came up and gripped auburn locks, pushing Mycroft down until his mouth met the junction of Greg’s neck and shoulder.

Greg tilted his head to the side, panting hard. “Please, y-your teeth - I--” he managed, voice tight with pleasure and a more than a hint of wild desperation.

 

*

 

_Oh indeed?_

Mycroft pushed against Greg, turning him over onto his back and easing on top of him, adjusting his grip on Greg's cock to keep the motion smooth. He dipped his head beneath Greg's chin at once; a long, indulgent lick was drawn.

Before Greg even had time to plead twice, he fastened his mouth to the wet patch he'd left. It was gentle, inquisitive, but a bite no less - accompanied with a soft rush of breath, a shiver of satisfaction and a tightening of his grasp.

 

*

 

Greg gasped as if he had been punched. _Almost - fuck -_

His hand tightened in Mycroft’s hair, pushed him just that bit closer, roughened the bite just a little -

And Greg was gone, moaning, “Fuck, _Mycroft --!_ ” as his orgasm swept over him, powerful and inexorable as a tidal wave. Stripes of come painted both their stomachs as the pleasure crashed through him.

It was all he could do to hold on, hips jerking between the pair of them. Stars flashed in front of his eyes and his heart stopped, or maybe was just racing so fast he couldn’t tell one beat from the next.

 

*

 

Mycroft slowed his hand with each moan, easing the pressure of his teeth. As Greg's sounds began to quieten, and the instinctive jerks of his hips fell still, he brushed his tongue across the skin he'd bitten - soothing it, lapping, slower and slower until he felt Greg begin to breathe again.

And this - _this -_ was contentment.

Greg's afterglow was his own. It had been waiting until now. Mycroft inhaled, deeply, filling his lungs and his soul with the scent of the man he loved.

_All this time._

Drawing back, gently, he discovered that he'd left a mark - faint for now, but definitely there - a pink-red blotch that a shirt collar may or may not conceal.

He supposed they'd find out in the morning.

Until then, there were rather more important matters to attend to.

As he kissed Greg, pressing tight against the warmth of his body, lube and come slicked between them. Mycroft didn't care. He'd never felt so gloriously messy in his life. He took Greg's face in his hands, eased his tongue between the man's perfect lips and kissed him, breathing the words in his mind, letting them roll through him with a shining, perfect happiness.

_I love you. I've loved you from the start._

_You are worth every danger, every risk. Every pain._

_Your joy is my joy._

 

*

 

Greg relaxed, boneless, against the sheets, floating in the afterglow. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft, holding him close and kissing him with every happiness.

_Christ, you’re amazing. Wonderful._

_Exactly what I need._

_I’m never letting you go. Not ever._

“That,” he breathed into the kiss, never pulling back further than a breath, “was perfect. _You’re_ perfect.” He sealed their mouths together again, letting his hands trace idle, gentle paths over Mycroft’s back, content to lay there and feel their hearts beat as one.

 

*

 

_Oh, god... how can we leave this bed in the morning?_

It would be Monday; the working week would begin. Mycroft would have to pull himself from Greg's arms, watch him put this beautiful body away beneath a suit, and the two of them would have to spend the day pretending they hadn't spent the night together.

They would just have to drink their fill before morning.

Greg's hands felt sublime upon his back. Mycroft stirred beneath them, trembling, and kissed Greg until the need for oxygen was too pressing to ignore.

He let go of his lover's mouth with a tiny sound of reluctance, breathing deep. He kept his eyes closed; his heart thumped quietly in his throat.

"We'll... perhaps need a towel, before we..." He shivered, stealing another soft kiss. Longing ached through his veins. "Oh, _god..._ Greg... what have we done?"

 

*

 

“Made a mess of the bed, I tell you what,” Greg rumbled, amused. He pressed a kiss to the tip of Mycroft’s nose. “And ourselves. Towel is a good idea. A wet one. This is going to dry and it’s going to get _real_ unpleasant.”

He hummed softly and tightened his arms minutely. “Another five minutes. Then we’ll get up and get this mess cleaned up.”

He nuzzled gently against Mycroft’s shoulder, pressing soft kisses to the freckles there. “Just five more minutes.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes shone.

"I shall have to hide these sheets from Mrs Collins..." He bit gently into his lip as Greg kissed his freckles, a warm flush rising higher and higher in his chest with every stroke of Greg's lips. "Or she'll be questioning my virtue... wondering who I've had in here..."

He carded his fingers through Greg's hair, brushing it gently onto end. Joy bubbled in his chest.

"Don't you dare sneak away in the early hours," he whispered. "Not without goodbye."

 

*

 

“Don’t worry, I’m well trained in sheet disposal,” Greg murmured. He paused a moment and laid a firmer kiss on Mycroft’s shoulder, enjoying the feel of the man’s fingers in his hair. “Not for me. Clients that threw parties. Inconsiderate bastards.”

He kissed along Mycroft’s collarbone, exploring happily. “If you think,” he murmured between presses of his lips, “that anything short of a crowbar is going to get me out of this bed,” he moved up to meet his lover’s gaze with a soft smile, “you are utterly crazy.” He kissed him sweetly.

_Nothing short of the apocalypse could take me from you now._

_And even then, the apocalypse can shove it._

 

*

 

"God help me..." Mycroft mumbled into the kiss. He raked both hands through Greg's hair, letting out a sigh that was bone-deep and full of contentment - then gently, with care, he eased himself off Greg.

He settled at his lover's side in bed, breathing deeply - tired. His bare skin seemed to tingle with the air upon it. He could feel pleasure still stirring through his veins, warm and easy, and his eyes fell shut of their own accord.

"I haven't any idea how sound carries through these walls," he murmured. "We - might have to be careful."

 

*

 

“Mm.” Greg nosed at Mycroft’s hair, kissing there gently. “It’ll be fine. Tomorrow I’ll have a bit of a yell and you can tell me where you can hear me from. Doesn’t matter tonight.”

He sat up with a pleased groan. “I think we’re due for that wet cloth now,” he said, peering down at his lanky lover with a fond smile. “Before someone falls asleep.”

He swung his legs out of bed and began searching for his boxers - or anything he could throw on for his walk to the bathroom. While he was _fairly_ certain no one was home, and the likelihood of someone both being in the house _and_ in the bathroom that only Greg and Mycroft used was slim to none, he didn’t really want to chance it.

“Where’d you toss my pants, gorgeous?” he called over his shoulder.

 

*

 

Mycroft watched, his eyes heavy-lidded, as Greg conducted his naked search for clothing. A small smile played across his lips. _Let me see this every night... every morning. Let me never grow tired of this sight._

"I believe I pushed them off the end of the bed... they might have fallen beneath your jeans." Stirring, Mycroft settled himself back against the pillows. "I think I could become rather attached to 'gorgeous'. Lunacy as it is."

 

*

 

“Well, if you think it’s lunacy, you better get used to the lunatic that comes with it.” Greg tossed his jeans aside and fumbled under the bed. “Aha! Found ‘em.”

He stepped into the boxers and slid them up, grinning at Mycroft. “Because neither I nor the moniker are going anywhere, gorgeous.” He crawled onto the bed again and gave Mycroft a sweet kiss. “Be right back.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat.

"Don't be long," he murmured, brushing his fingertips over Greg's jaw. "If you - come across anyone - "

He hesitated, unsure what excuse could even be given.

 

*

 

Greg arched a brow, smiling a little bit. “I’m pretty sure no one who lives here is going to ask about why I’m covered in lube and come, because no one asks personal questions ‘round here. That _definitely_ counts as a personal question.” He pecked the end of Mycroft’s nose, still smiling. “I’ll think of something. Attacked by a drifter or something. I dunno.”

He hopped off the bed and paused at the door, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “Don’t fall asleep while I’m gone, yeah? We should change the sheets, and I don’t feel like dumping you in a chair to do it.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes glittered softly. "And if you savage me again in the night? Will we be changing the sheets three times?"

He stretched a little.

"The sheets can wait until the morning... don't be long."

 

*

 

Greg smiled, eyes crinkled. “Be back in a tick, gorgeous. Promise.”

He stepped out of the room, glanced up and down the hallway, and made his way to the bathroom. A hand towel was quickly wet and lathered with a bit of soap, then applied to his abdomen. Once he was clean and dry, he turned to head back for the bathroom, the wet towel and a dry one in hand.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror and grinned. Hair ruffled, cheeks flushed, and sporting a mark that was already growing darker. He was _pretty_ sure his collar would cover it.

Probably.

He whistled softly as he walked back to the room, stepping inside and closing the door behind himself with a quiet ‘ _snikt_ ’. Once he made sure the latch was engaged again, he got on the bed and gave Mycroft a kiss. “Hope that wasn’t too long a wait for you,” he murmured, drawing the cloth over the mess on his lover’s abdomen.

 

*

 

Mycroft felt his stomach tighten gently as Greg cleaned him. He watched, flushing, his eyes bright and soft with contentment, resting his fingertips on Greg's upper arm. The protective care in Greg's hands made him feel weak - the comfortable familiarity with his body already - it was sublime.

"Thank you," he said softly, gazing into Greg's face. He gave a quiet smile. "Is there... any sign of anyone returning?"

 

*

 

Greg shook his head easily. “Nope.” He tossed the wet cloth off to the side and began drying Mycroft off. “Which is… weird, now that I think about it,” he said, frowning a little. “It’s pretty late, gotta be -”

The clock downstairs began chiming, just audible.

“- ten o’clock,” he finished, smiling and rolling his eyes a little.

He laid down beside the other man, expression melting into a smile. He propped his head on his hand, elbow up, gazing down. His other hand draped across the now-dry tummy. “Can’t really complain, though,” he murmured, tugging Mycroft closer. “Gave us time alone.”

 

*

 

It crossed Mycroft's mind, with a brief touch of worry, that they _had_ been given time alone - purposefully. He supposed it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that Anthea, especially, had sensed some of his attraction to Greg...

_No._

_No... simply paranoia._

He eased a little closer to Greg, turning onto his side and wrapping his arm gently around his lover's waist. Their stomachs pressed together; he leant up to kiss Greg's jaw, softly, his eyes closing.

"Thank you," he murmured. "For..." He smiled, resting his fingertips against Greg's collarbone scars. "This feels rather miraculous."

 

*

 

Greg smiled and hummed softly. “Yeah. Same here.” He put his nose in Mycroft’s hair and breathed deeply, enjoying the scent of his lover, the feel of him in his arms.

_Never letting you go._

_Not ever_.

He laid a gentle kiss there, closing his eyes. “You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured. “Hope you know that. I’m not going anywhere. And we are not leaving this bed until morning.”

 

*

 

_God almighty._

Mycroft quietly nestled as close as he could. His eyes closed as he brushed his mouth across the pink bite he'd left on Greg's neck. _Mine._

"Don't go," he said. His throat squeezed slightly. "If you - ever find yourself wishing to - please. Tell me. I will do anything to make you stay."

He drew a breath.

"Anything," he whispered.

He lifted his head, reaching for Greg's lips. He wanted to kiss; he wanted to feel Greg settle to sleep in his arms, safe here, close to him at last.

Their lips pressed - and as if triggered by the kiss, there came a cheerful rising tone throughout the house.

Mycroft stiffened.

He pulled back, his eyes opening.

"Was that - ?"

The doorbell sounded again - with some insistence.

 

*

 

Greg growled softly. “Anything, huh?” he asked, sitting up. “Give me an alibi for when I shoot whoever the fuck is ringing the doorbell this late at night.”

He heaved a sigh and got off the bed. The jeans that had been previously discarded were tugged on. He pointed at Mycroft with a commanding smile. “Don’t you leave this bed. I’ll be right back.”

He stopped by his room to grab a gun - most intruders weren’t polite enough to ring the doorbell, but you never knew - and tucked it into the back of his waistband. He didn’t bother with a shirt; he could argue and/or shoot well enough bare-chested.

His footsteps echoed loudly in the house - not that it was a surprise, his tread was just shy of stomping.

 _This had better be real bloody important,_ he thought savagely.

He opened the door with a frown. “Can I help y--?” he started, a little angry.

Greg blinked. And stared.

“Uh. Can I help you?” he asked again.

 


	41. Big Trouble

It could be midnight, for all Jinx knew. The hours and the darkness had blurred into one. Nothing really existed outside of the bike, Anthea's arms around her waist, and the memories of holding her as she cried. The roads they took back to the estate seemed different to the ones that had taken them away. Something had changed in the world; everything felt a little new and uncertain.

In the morning, they'd have to start again.

She'd have to get her uniform back on, remember the cheerful and breezy person she'd now spent six years pretending to be, and somehow drive Mr Holmes and Greg around all day - maybe even with Anthea sitting beside her.

They'd just have to see what the light brought.

There was nothing to be gained in worrying. Anthea would either be fine with her, and they'd see where that led - or she'd clam up, close down, and that would be the end of it.

Jinx didn't have a lot of say.

It was nice to have this last hour - if it was the last. It was nice to feel Anthea hold onto her tight. The night air was freezing, and the thin white shirt she wore wasn't keeping her warm at all. It didn't matter though. She was going to cherish the grass-stains on it; she might just keep it, folded up in a drawer.

At least that way, she'd be sure it had all really happened.

The approaching gates weren't a welcome sight. She fished the remote from the pocket of her trousers one-handed, and got them open just in time. They passed along the lane beyond like a ghost, a single headlight moving between the trees.

They might have to sneak back the house. If it was past ten, Greg could already have gone to bed and armed the place - the security systems would start shrieking at the first hint of anyone trying to open a door. The pair of them would then be caught together, covered in grass stains. This could end up tricky.

In the end, Jinx needn't have worried.

As they rumbled free of the trees and arrived with a quiet roar in the courtyard, her headlamp swept across a car outside the front door.

It was a police car.

"Oh - "

Jinx's heart stopped.

"Oh - Jesus - "

There were lights on downstairs.

_No._

_No. God._

_No, not while I was -_

_Where the fuck is Lestrade?_

_Oh, Christ - where is Mr Holmes?_

Jinx wrenched the bike to a stop. She flung herself off it sideways without a pause, before the engine had even settled into silence.

Pale as death, she held out her arms to Anthea.

"Off you get - " Her face was hard with fear. "C'mon. Quick. I need to - "

 

*

 

“Need to _what_ , exactly?” Anthea demanded, taking Jinx’s hands to get off the bike before stepping away curtly to fix her wind-swept hair. Fear had settled in her stomach like an icy block - she had seen the police car too - but it just made her angry.

“What _exactly_ are you going to do, Maguire? You were a soldier, not an officer of the law,” she said, staring fiercely at her. “Or so your file says.” _I don’t believe it anymore. I don’t know what you are, but soldier is not it._ “What do you think you’re going to do?”

She strode off at a pace that was just this side of a run, heels dangling at her side. Adrenaline and fear made it so she didn’t feel the gravel digging into the soles of her feet.

_Please, God, let Mr. Holmes be alright._

_Lestrade should be with him, but -_

_Just let him be okay._

 

*

 

Jinx's jaw set. She almost said it - _almost._

They had to find Mr Holmes first. If something had happened while she was out of the house, rolling around in a field with Mycroft's assistant, everyone would find the truth out soon enough.

She ran at Anthea's side, her boots crunching quickly over the gravel, and got to the door just a fraction in front.

She wasn't armed. She didn't even have a fucking phone to call for back-up. But if the police were here, they were screwed already. There was no point doing this stealthily.

She reached for the handle, wrenched the front door open and shouldered her way into the house.

 

*

 

“Oh, there you are, Maguire,” Greg said, turning and looking over his shoulder. His arms were folded, back to the door, handle of his gun still sticking out of the waistband of his jeans. Inside, just past him, stood a quite-young policeman and Mrs. Collins.

“Glad to see you alive and well. Forget something at the supermarket, did we?” he asked, arching a brow.

He tilted his head to look behind Jinx, where Anthea had just appeared. “Oh, and you’ve brought Anthea too. How nice.” His voice had that professionally friendly tone that said ‘ _I am going to fucking kill someone for this_ ’. It also said ‘ _there had better be a damn good explanation for this_ ’.

 

*

 

Jinx's mouth opened.

She looked from Greg's face to his bare back to the gun sticking out of his jeans, then to the policeman standing opposite him - then to Mrs Collins, who was regarding her with a furiously dignified glare, her lower lip trembling. She was clutching her handbag - and had the look of someone who'd been left standing outside a supermarket all afternoon.

_Oh._

_Oh fuck._

Jinx's eyes slid back to Greg.

_Right. An explanation._

_Here it comes._

She inhaled. "Erm," she said.

_Yep. That's..._

_That's about it._

"Where's Mr Holmes? Is he - "

 

*

 

“Mr. Holmes,” Greg said crisply, turning to face her, ignoring the gasp of the policeman, “is fine. I presume he’s in bed, where he’s been for most of the evening.” _I’d be more worried about yourself right now if I were you_ hung unspoken.

“And where have _you_ been most of the evening?” he asked sharply, looking her up and down.

 

*

 

Before Jinx could say a word, Anthea stepped in smoothly. “My fault, I’m afraid,” she said. “Family emergency. I demanded that Maguire take me at once. My apologies, Mrs. Collins,” she said, turning to the housekeeper. “I’m dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting so long. I beg your forgiveness.”

_I don’t know who you are, Maguire, but I will figure it out._

_In the meantime… we will see._

She studiously did _not_ look at Jinx.

 

*

 

Jinx studiously did _not_ look at Anthea, either. It was leaving her with few places left that were safe for her eyes: trying to avoid the furious stare of Mrs Collins, the concerned face of the policeman, Lestrade's nipples, and the woman she'd spent the evening lying in a field with.

Realising a silence had fallen, Jinx blinked and lifted her eyes from her shoes. It seemed like they were all waiting for her.

_Oh, right. Yeah._

She cleared her throat.

"Sorry, Mrs C. I - thought I'd give you time with your friend, to..." The excuse died in her mouth. "I also maybe forgot you a bit. Sorry. Won't happen again."

Trying to avoid both his bare chest and his glare, her eyes settled in the region of Greg's neck.

_Wait -_

_Wait - is that a -_

 

*

 

Greg felt the look and gave Jinx a smile that was both feral and threatening. “I think a good start on an apology would be to go get the shopping out of the car, don’t you think?”

_Say a word and I will shoot you right here and now, I swear to God._

The policeman - Constable Perkins, it seemed - cleared his throat. “Uh, sir? Is that -”

Greg turned back around, smile easing into something much friendlier. “Oh, that?” he asked, gesturing at his back. “It’s registered, not to worry. And I’ve got a permit, if you need to see it.”

Constable Perkins shook his head quickly. “Nope! Nope, it’s all fine - all great - just thought I should check. I’m gonna - go start on grabbing the shopping with uh -”

“Maguire,” Anthea supplied smoothly.

“- her, yep,” he stuttered, looking at Anthea, at Anthea’s cleavage, and then staring at the floor as he scooted his way around Greg and out the door.

Greg stared at Jinx. _Well?_

 

*

 

Jinx stared back.

_That's a bite. That's actually a bite. And you weren't asleep - you'd be in pyjama bottoms if you were asleep - holy shit. You were naked._

_You were naked..._

_... and Mr Holmes has been in bed all evening?_

_Holy shit._

It took every ounce of Jinx's resolve not to smile.

"Sure," she said. She held Greg's stare for a second, her heart leaping. "I'll go get the shopping." As she turned, she hesitated briefly next to Anthea.

"Night, Anthea," she said. "Hope it works out... see you in the morning."

She stepped out into the night, wondering exactly how much trouble she'd be in when Mr Holmes found out she'd left Mrs Collins at the supermarket.

Hopefully he'd be in a good mood, at least.

She grinned, patted Constable Perkins on the back, and started pulling bags out of the boot.

 

*

 

Greg managed to chivvy Mrs. Collins off to bed, assuring her that he would be supervising the putting away of the groceries - “Yes, Mrs. C, I know where the tomatoes go - yes, and the order of the tins in the pantry - yes, not to worry, go to sleep - it’ll all be right in the morning - good _night,_ Mrs. C.”

When she had turned down the hallway, he turned to Anthea and folded his arms again, raising a brow. “Family emergency, was it?” he asked.

_Family emergency, my arse._

“Yes,” she said crisply. “Unfortunate, but all worked out now.” She gave him the tiniest hint of a smirk. “I hope you’ve had a good evening Lestrade. Sleep well.” There was the _smallest_ fraction of emphasis on ‘sleep’, and he scowled at her as she headed up for her own room.

When Jinx and the constable came in, he took the bags from the poor young lad. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “Really. Thanks. Poor dear probably would have stood there all night waiting for this one.” He jerked his head at Jinx.

Constable Perkins smiled weakly. “Just doin’ m’duty, sir,” he said. “H-have a good evening.” He headed off for his car ( _scurried_ was the more appropriate word) and took off into the night.

Greg glared at Jinx. “You are lucky I don’t shoot you right now,” he said flatly. “You _forgot_ Mrs Collins at the _supermarket._  Long enough that the _police_ brought her home. The hell is the matter with you?”

 

*

 

"She's very forgettable! Alright? There, I said it. She was banging on to one of her old lady friends for over an hour, and she'd not even reached the cheese aisle yet... so I went for a quick walk, and - Anthea called. Asked if I could help her out. Mrs C wasn't getting a shuffle on any time soon, so I made a choice."

Jinx shrugged, hooking her thumbs in her belt. The grass stains on her shirt were obvious; Lestrade's bite-mark was obvious.

"Figured Mr Holmes would prioritise his assistant's family emergency over Mrs C blathering on and on. And she was only standing there for..."

She checked the clock above the stairs.

_Christ._

" - uhhh - seven hours, so... what's the problem here? She's fine. Groceries are put away. Ice cream's melted a bit, but... we're all fine. Mrs Collins'll see the funny side some day."

She raised an eyebrow.

"You should get a shirt on, by the way. S'creating an unprofessional work environment. Some of us take our jobs seriously, Lestrade."

 

*

 

“Jobs - you mean like driving people from place to place?” Greg shot back. “Or is rolling around in the grass higher on your list of duties than your _job description_?”

He shook his head. “ _I_ am going to bed,” he said. He pointed at her. “ _You_ are still in big trouble. Rest up. You’re going to need it.”

Still shaking his head, he headed back up the stairs, swearing under his breath.

 

*

 

Grinning, Jinx called after him.

"You gonna tell on me to Mr Holmes?"

 

*

 

“He’s asleep,” Greg called back. He wasn’t about to fall for that. “Besides, Mrs. C will do a fine job of it in the morning. Go to sleep, Maguire!”

He reached the landing, headed for his room, and walked right past it. He slipped quietly into Mycroft’s room, easing the door open and peeking in to see if the man was still awake or not.

 

*

 

Mycroft looked up at once from the bed, gathering the sheets to his bare chest. The lamps were all turned out except the one by the bed. Gentle worry tightened his features.

"What on earth is happening?" he asked, gazing at Greg. "Why is there a police car outside?"

 

*

 

“You need better employees, that’s what’s happening,” Greg said, rolling his eyes as he stripped off his jeans. “Maguire forgot something at the supermarket.”

He crawled into bed and kissed Mycroft’s cheek. “It was Mrs. Collins. The poor woman was stood there for seven hours waiting for her. Police brought her back.”

 

*

 

Mycroft looked at Greg for a moment as if quite certain he was joking.

"She - _forgot_ Mrs Collins at the - ... for heaven's sake. At least they arrived with her  _now,_ rather than half an hour ago..."

He wrapped his arms around Greg's shoulders, pulling him close. Their bare legs intertwined beneath the covers.

A faint shiver of relief finally passed through Mycroft's body.

"Have we heard anything from Maguire? It seems unlike her to vanish."

 

*

 

“Apparently Anthea had a family emergency and needed a pick-up,” Greg said, settling down easily and pulling Mycroft onto his chest, holding him close. “They came back together, just after the police arrived with Mrs. C.”

He kept the information about matching grass-stains on both women to himself for now. Mycroft didn’t need to know that particular tidbit at the moment.

He kissed the top of his head, yawning faintly. “You gotta pretend not to know anything about this come morning, gorgeous,” he murmured. “Wait for Mrs. Collins to tell you all about that dreadful Maguire, yeah?”

 

*

 

Mycroft shivered again, humming his soft and sleepy assent. He kissed the edge of Greg's jaw.

"Something for me to look forward to..." He breathed in, slowly, letting Greg's scent settle his heart back to a normal rhythm. The warmth of full body contact was incredible; his lover's bare body made him feel intensely safe. "I'm - rather sleepy, Greg... I fear I shan't be awake much longer..."

He smiled quietly, kissing his shoulder.

"It seems you've worn me out."

 

*

 

“Good. Hold on for just a moment longer.” Greg smiled and kissed first one cheek, then the other, then his forehead, then the tip of his nose.

Then his lips, a sweet, chaste thing.

He smiled affectionately and brushed Mycroft’s curl back and away. “Sweet dreams, gorgeous,” he murmured. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Promise.”

 

*

 

_Oh..._

_God..._

Mycroft's breath hitched at the fifth, final kiss. _At last._

_After all this time._

His heart seemed to have expanded to twice its size; he felt at peace - truly, deeply, desperately at _peace._ His eyes shimmered as Greg brushed back his errant central curl, and he kissed Greg gently - a last stroke of their mouths.

As they parted, he whispered against them,

"Good night, rogue..." He bit his lip. "Sleep well."

 


	42. Morning After

Mycroft had three women to speak to the next morning. It was unfortunate, as all he really wanted was to remain in bed a little longer with the man in his household. 

Pulling himself from Greg's arms was unbearable. They'd woken up early, kissing and talking softly in the darkness, sharing reassurances and quiet words of affection on this the first ever morning after. Mycroft wasn't sure how he'd manage so much as a grain of concentration today. His heart and his head would both be here, in bed with Greg, stealing just one more kiss.

When they'd finally parted, and Greg had taken himself off to the shower, Mycroft pulled on his nightwear and a dressing gown. He made an attempt to flatten his hair, though suspected he'd need to wait until after his own shower before it lost its decidedly playful coils. 

It was a wonder Mrs Collins wasn't already at his bedroom door, knocking furiously. He'd far prefer to first hear the facts of last night from the person most qualified to dispense facts. 

Though it was early, he knew Anthea would be awake.

He knocked quietly upon her bedroom door, hoping he looked a little less radiantly shagged than he felt. 

"Anthea?" His call was gentle. "It's Mycroft."

 

*

 

Anthea looked up from the file she had been going over at her desk, head turning to stare at the door. A cup of tea sat steaming beside her, all but untouched.

_ Mr. Holmes. _

_ Probably here to ask about the events of last night. _

How much should she tell him? All of it? None of it? Some of it?

She took her reading glasses off her nose and set them aside as she rose, thinking all the while. Mr. Holmes had been privy to more than one of her breakdowns, as she had been there for his. It had been something private between the two of them; shared, but never spoken of.

And now she had broken down before Maguire - Jinx.  _ If that’s really her name, _ Anthea thought, rolling her eyes just a touch.

Briefly, she wondered what Mr. Holmes would think of that, of her losing her composure before someone else. If he would think less of her for it. Think her weak.

She huffed to herself a little and pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself.  _ Silly. Don’t worry about it. Mr. Holmes isn’t like that. _

She opened the door with a quiet click. Absolutely nothing crossed her face when she took in Mr. Holmes’ appearance - hair in curls, an ease of stance, a softening of expression.

That, together with Lestrade’s appearance from the night before, led her to one conclusion.

_ I think Maguire and I are going to be purchasing a bottle of wine, _ she thought to herself, warmth filling her. She was glad, truly glad, that Mr. Holmes and Lestrade had finally come together. They deserved each other, deserved to be happy together. It was clear they were made for each other; they fit together like two puzzle pieces, or perhaps were the last piece in the puzzle of the other.

Complete, together.

_ At last _ .

She allowed the smallest of smiles to grace her lips as she said, “Good morning, Mr. Holmes. What can I do for you?”

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart tightened as his assistant laid eyes on him.

Of all the people in the world, she was the closest. She had been permitted to see his weakness, as well as his strength, and she'd been close at hand for every moment of his recent years. She'd been there to witness every success and every failure. 

Now she was witnessing this one.

As he looked at her, Mycroft was left in no doubt. 

She could see it written across his face, as clear as day. He was in love; it was reciprocated. He was changing. His life was filling with emotional sunlight, and he could no sooner hide it from Anthea than he could command the seasons to change around them.

He looked into her eyes, watching that small smile appear. 

A smile of equal smallness touched his mouth.

"I understand there was an eventuality last night... and I suspect I'm going to receive two wildly different retellings of it. I hoped you could isolate some of the facts for me."

_ It happened. Last night - I want to tell you - it happened, and he woke in my arms. All this time. He came to my room. He spent the night with me. _

_ God help me, I want to tell you. _

_ I wish dearly that I could. _

"May we speak privately?" he asked, glancing over her shoulder.

 

*

 

A small breath huffed through Anthea’s nose, the faintest hint of amusement.

_ Did Lestrade tell you this morning, or last night, when he went back to bed with you? _ she wondered fondly. She would bet a significant number of pounds that it was the latter.

“Of course, sir,” she said smoothly. She stepped back and gestured him in. It had never bothered her to have him here, in her bedroom; she was tidy, and there had never been any sort of sexual tension between them (for so very many reasons).

He was the only one permitted into her room here, in fact, at least while she was in it. Even Mrs. Collins did very little in here.

“Please, have a seat,” she offered, gesturing at the armchair positioned in the corner, under a lamp. She turned her desk chair around to face the armchair and positioned herself primly upon it. 

“I take it you’re aware of Mrs. Collins’ plight last night, then?” she asked, arching one brow just slightly.

 

*

 

"Thank you." Mycroft took a seat, ensuring as he did that his dressing gown was gathered neatly around his waist. This was a rather more casual state of dress than their usual meetings; he would be speaking to Mrs Collins and Maguire once he'd showered, changed, and made himself look more like an employer and less like someone on the first morning of their honeymoon.

"I've been told very little," he admitted. "I understand that she spent perhaps more of her day at the supermarket than she'd originally planned."

Saying the name made his heart skip slightly.

"Greg informs me the police were kind enough to return her to us."

 

*

 

_ Good Lord. Both of us sitting here in our dressing gowns. Like teen girls at a slumber party, gossiping away. _ Anthea couldn’t bring herself to be anything but fondly amused, however.

It was all she could do not to grin when her employer said ‘Greg’.

_ First name basis. Stunning. _

_ Well, I should hope they’d be on a first name basis. Biting someone is usually a ‘first names’ activity. _

Not to say that she hadn’t engaged in similar activities with people she only knew by last name.

Or title.

Beside the point.

She shifted in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Yes. I’m sorry to say the poor constable was scared out of his wits - Lestrade presented quite a threatening image,” minus the love mark on his neck, “and then Maguire and I suddenly appeared, startling him rather badly.”

She pursed her lips a little, trying not to smile. “I believe Edna met up with one of the members of her gin club - excuse me, knitting club - at the supermarket and was moving at a…  _ sedate _ pace. Maguire felt comfortable leaving her to it for a while.”

This next part would be rather harder to explain, though out of everyone in the house, Mr. Holmes knew how trying her luncheons with her parents were.

He would understand.

She met his eyes, and said, “She found me in the garden when she arrived back at the house. I had just arrived, myself, after returning from lunch with my parents.”

 

*

 

Mycroft listened in patient quiet as his assistant spoke, trying to remain unaffected by the knowledge of what had prompted his bodyguard's threatening impatience. The man's protective instincts would be the end of Mycroft someday. It was too evocative to put into words.

The arrival of Anthea's parents into the story opened certain avenues of possibility in Mycroft's mind. He kept them from his face, certain that Anthea wouldn't want him to speculate at this stage. He would let her supply him with the story as it had happened. 

"Go on," he said. "I'm listening."

 

*

 

“I was… unsettled,” Anthea admitted. That would tell him how deeply distressed she had been, she hoped.

She took a breath. “We… went for a drive.” She looked away for a moment, mouth drawn. “I’m not proud of it, but it was… helpful.”

_ I’m sorry I ran from my duties here. I needed a break. I’m sorry I was weak. _

She inhaled again, softly, and met his eyes again. “We were out longer than I had anticipated. I was unaware Mrs. Collins had been left behind.” The smallest headshake. “The silly woman didn’t think to call another driver, of course. When Maguire and I returned, the constable had just returned her here with the shopping.”

 

*

 

A faint smile lifted the edge of Mycroft's mouth.

"Rather set in her ways, our Mrs Collins... if Maguire was due to collect her, Maguire was due to collect her, come hell or high water. I imagine she'd no sooner have called another driver than grown herself a pair of wheels and driven home." 

He contemplated the issue for a few moments, quietly biting the inside of his cheek.

"Maguire is, of course, employed to drive government personnel - namely, the two of us. Her presence in the household is convenient for weekend errands, but it isn't her primary function. If Maguire had been called away as part of her official duties, Mrs Collins would also have needed to arrange other transport... and if I recall, the supermarket is less than half an hour away. A  _ taxi  _ would seem a more sensible route home than loitering long enough to attract the attention of the law."

His eyes glittered.

"Now, how to express that to Mrs Collins?" he murmured, amusement curling in his voice. 

_ Your reasons for leaving are a non-issue; your time with Maguire is a non-issue. You have nothing to be concerned about.  _

_ Today - of all days - be assured that I understand. _

 

*

 

The thread of tension that had been curling up Anthea’s spine unwound, and she relaxed back against her chair.

_ Thank you. _

She smirked, just a little, and tilted her head to the side. “It is my professional opinion that you avoid the word ‘sensible’ during your explanation, sir,” she advised, faint amusement coloring her tone.

“If I may make a suggestion,” she continued, finger against the corner of her lips thoughtfully, “perhaps couching the point in terms of not letting the groceries come to harm would be a good avenue.” Her eyes sparkled. “I seem to recall some frozen goods that came to a most unfortunate end, being stood with our housekeeper for seven hours.”

 

*

 

Mycroft just about resisted the urge to cover his eyes, amusement shaking through his chest.  _ Seven hours. For heaven's sake.  _ He brushed his wayward central curl back with a sigh, settled himself, and said,

"An excellent suggestion. I'm certain this will be forgotten within a week or two... I'll speak to Mrs Collins before we leave for London. Depending on time, I might have to wait until this afternoon to speak to Maguire. If you have the opportunity before I do, assure her that mistakes are made."

The smile played across his mouth once more.

"Perhaps some suggestion that we've all  _ considered  _ abandoning Mrs Collins at Sainsburys in our time, but thought and action exist on two very separate sides of a chasm - and should perhaps stay that way."

 

*

 

Anthea passed a hand over her mouth, hiding a smile. Her employer was very clearly in a good mood today, and she knew exactly who to thank for that.

Perhaps she’d purchase Lestrade a hamper of some kind.  _ ‘Thank you for shagging our boss’ _ .

Hallmark probably didn’t have a pre-made card for that situation, but she would make do.

“Right you are, sir,” she said, inclining her head. “I’ll be sure to mention that to her.” She glanced at the clock beside her bed. “If you’ll excuse me, I should begin getting ready for the day.”

She bit her lip as she rose, eyes sparkling, unable to stop herself from saying, “Perhaps you should send Alice to see if Lestrade has finished with his shower yet.”

 

*

 

"Of course," Mycroft said, ever gracious, and stood from his chair. "I believe we'll be leaving at normal time - assuming Mrs Collins is willing to listen for at least  _ some  _ of the discussion. If not, we should make it to London just about in time for Christmas."

It crossed his mind, briefly, how it was that she knew Lestrade was in the shower - then the obvious dawned. 

It was because Mycroft was now here.

In the door, he briefly paused. 

_ Should I...? _

_ No.  _

No - for no reason other than that, someday, if the worst should happen, and questions were ever asked from above as to the nature of the relationship Mycroft had shared with a paid employee, he wished Anthea to be able to answer in honesty that she'd never been made aware of it. To confide this secret in her would be to burden her with responsibility for it, should it ever come to light.

Instead, Mycroft said simply,

"Thank you, Anthea."

He then returned to his room. 

Passing the bathroom, he discovered it was now empty. He took the opportunity to shower, washed his hair and brushed his teeth, then dressed in his room with some care - for his suit, he chose the light grey Reiss Corden with a muted blue tie. It was perhaps a softer choice for a Monday, always striking him as more of a Thursday suit, lacking the force of will that his usual Monday suits had.

It seemed right today, though. It made him smile.

The smile lasted until the bottom of the stairs, where Mrs Collins was waiting for him.

Over an hour later, fifteen minutes after eight and with a decidedly weary expression, Mycroft slid into the backseat of the car.

"Forgive me..." he said to them all, closing the door with a soft snap. "I can only apologise for the delay."

In the driver's seat, Jinx Maguire started up the engine. She kept her tone professional and clean. "Might hit traffic, sir."

"Quite alright, Maguire. My fault entirely. If we encounter traffic, we endure it - we shall all have to play 'I Spy' until it clears." 

Mycroft glanced across at the man beside him, hardly daring to meet Greg's gaze. His eyes glittered, quietly. 

"Mrs Collins," he said, "fears what the local constabulary must now think of my household, that I allow staff to roam the building armed and half-naked at night. My reputation is apparently at stake."

 

*

 

Greg grinned, sniggering. “Better than wandering the house armed and totally naked,” he pointed out, eyes dancing. “Think I scared the poor lad out of his wits a bit. Imagine if it’d just been me and the gun, no jeans. Probably would have turned tail and run.”

He sniggered harder. “Poor Mrs. Collins probably would have had a coronary, though, so I suppose it’s all for the best.”

He leaned back in his seat, eyes still bright with mirth. Without looking, he shut the privacy screen as they got going. Nothing strange, nothing unusual or new about that.

His foot stretched out and locked gently around Mycroft’s ankle, solely for the comfort of the touch, which  _ was _ new. His smile turned softer, gentler. 

They had been apart all of an hour and a half, with dressing and being dressed down by Mrs. Collins, and it had felt like an eternity to Greg.

He knew he was decidedly done for. There would never be anyone for him but Mycroft.

That was more than fine with him.

 

*

 

Mycroft's mouth curved rather shyly. He glanced down at the foot now stroking his ankle, then up at his bodyguard, eyes crinkling with quiet fondness.

"I have something to request of you," he said, in a tone of soft sobriety. It felt somehow strange to be dressed in Greg's company. "I hope you'll understand its importance... I know your proclivity to tease me. For your benefit, I'll acknowledge that you are exceedingly good at it - your skills are proven. I'll then beg you, in all seriousness, not to try tormenting me in public."

He laid a hand upon the seat beside him - it happened to be where Greg's hand was already resting. 

Their fingers linked, carefully.

"I understand it would be fun for you," Mycroft murmured, "and I understand you think it might be fun for me, too. All you'd likely cause is panic. This would not be a small scandal, if it came to light - my position would be severely threatened. If that happened in the name of casual amusement..."

 

*

 

Greg smiled softly and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he murmured. “I’ll behave myself.” He looked down at their joined hands, still smiling faintly.

His thumb brushed along Mycroft’s soothingly. “I know this is a big thing,” he said, still keeping his tone soft and serious. “That we have to be careful. You have more to lose than I do, honestly - this could wreck you for years. Maybe forever. I’d recover in a couple months, tops.”

He looked up at Mycroft, eyes open and honest, expression serious. “I’d never do that to you,” he promised firmly, giving his hand another squeeze. “Never. Okay? You don’t have to worry about me, gorgeous. Absolutely nothing to worry about.”

 

*

 

Mycroft huffed softly. He took his eyes from Greg's, considering the forest now passing on either side of the car.

"I hate to say that  _ you  _ might not find yourself bouncing back to 'business as usual' within eight weeks, either. My superiors would take a spectacularly dim view of the situation."

He crossed one leg over the other, carefully.

"You're correct that I have more to lose," he said, "but the forces I serve would not allow you to slip away unscathed. They might assume that I've divulged to you information far above your security clearance. In  _ that  _ regard, you could expect to find your background investigated with frightening thoroughness - and if there is nothing to find, they will make something."

These possibilities were not comfortable to discuss - but if it persuaded Greg to think twice before engaging in high jinks, then so be it.

"What passes in private between us must remain private - for  _ both  _ our sakes."

 

*

 

The instinct to - well, not argue, but counter the point - was strong enough in Greg that he had to wrestle with it for a moment or two.

He wanted to say that even if his life was destroyed by this, he had other things he could do; other avenues he could follow. Security work had been his life for many years, but he could find other work. Mycroft would have nowhere to turn if this came to light.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was that Mycroft was expressing concern, and asking something that was quite reasonable of him, and Greg wasn’t going to argue about it.

So he just smiled and rubbed his thumb over Mycroft’s knuckles again. “I hear you, darlin’. I’ll keep it under wraps, and I promise not to tease you.” 

He bit his lip and couldn’t hold back his smile. “Well,” he admitted, “I promise not to tease you where other people could possibly see. I can’t promise not to tease you at  _ all _ . It’d probably kill me, and then where would we be?”

 

*

 

A small smile lifted the corner of Mycroft's mouth. He allowed his fingers to wrap with Greg's, playing gently, and took a moment to settle the shadows of his mind.

"I suppose you did admit to me, on our first meeting, that you have a thrill-seeking streak... I employed you regardless. Had I known you'd indulge it by seducing me, I'd still have employed you. I only have myself to blame."

His eyes glittered slightly as he regarded Greg, a softly searching look that took in far more than the surface.

"Discretion in public will bring us reassurance in private. If we are careful, you and I can conduct ourselves however we wish... it's a case of attentive stage management - that is all."

 

*

 

Greg bit the side of his cheek, eyes dancing. “So, relentless teasing in private, professional comportment in public,” he noted. “Got it.”

He shifted his legs, pressing his thigh along Mycroft’s. After the last twenty four hours, not touching felt strange, felt  _ wrong _ . They weren’t quite in private, here, but it was close enough. They could touch, at least.

It would be enough.

It would have to be enough.

 

*

 

Greg’s casual, comfortable proclivity for touch was rather hard to resist. He had an ease with himself that Mycroft still found fascinating, and deeply endearing, and it wasn’t within Mycroft’s current capabilities to deny him the contact. They were alone - and if the gentle connection of hands and knees was what got them through this trying first day of pretence, then it was only a good thing. 

Regarding his bodyguard softly, Mycroft said,

"I almost want to ask you if you’re certain, you know... if you’ve come to your senses in the ninety minutes’ space you’ve had from me..." He paused, half-smiling, rubbing his thumb over the back of Greg’s hand. "I doubt you’ll ever quite convince me this is happening."

 

*

 

Greg smiled, chuckling softly. He turned a little in his seat so he could lay his other hand on top of their entwined ones. “You can ask,” he said gently. “And I’ll tell you that  _ yes _ , I’m certain. No ‘if’. No ‘maybe’.”

He squeezed their hands, then lifted his free hand to rub Mycroft’s upper arm. “Considering I spent every second of the last ninety minutes wanting nothing more than to haul you back to bed,” he murmured, eyes warm and gentle, “Mrs. Collins and the fate of Britain be damned, I’d say there’s quite a stack of evidence that says that I’m very certain, and you’re very stuck with me.”

He grinned. “Besides, ask anyone. I haven’t any sense to come to, so you’ve nothing to worry about there.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart strained discreetly against his ribs. He lowered his eyes beneath his lashes, smiling, and tried to ignore the restless tingle that rolled across his skin beneath his clothing. Greg's touch made him want more of Greg's touch. The gentle rub of his upper arm was dismantling his barriers as easily as if they'd never existed.

"I thought I might take a walk this evening," he murmured. "My head's always rather busy after a Monday... the fresh air might help to relax me."

His eyes danced.

"Quite certain I'd be safe on my own, but... if you wished to grace me with your protection and company, it might be pleasant."

He stroked his thumb against the inside of Greg's wrist, dipping gently beneath his cuff.

 

*

 

The soft touch on the skin of his wrist sent a shiver through Greg, one stronger than he would have cared to admit.

He smiled warmly. “Sure, I think I can fit that into my busy schedule,” he said teasingly. “Keep you safe from all the vicious wildlife and strange forest people.”

He licked his lips and smiled, eyes bright. “Bet I can help with that relaxation bit, too,” he offered.

Probably not whilst they were  _ in  _ the forest, but after, certainly. Greg had all sorts of tricks up his sleeve to help a man relax, and he planned to show Mycroft every single one of them in due time.

 

*

 

"You've always had a talent for unwinding me," Mycroft murmured. He couldn't bring himself to deny that; Greg's easy nature seemed to flick his security settings at once to their lowest levels. The man was a miracle in human form. "I'd like to spend time together, this evening... you and I."

His eyes shone.

"Get to know each other, perhaps. In a more intimate way than we have."

 

*

 

Greg grinned, eyebrows arching up. “Oh yeah?”

He slid his hand down from Mycroft's bicep to trace patterns on the back of his hand, moving around their linked fingers and tracing various veins and tendons idly.

He leaned in and purred, “Why, sir, if I didn't know better, that would sound like a seduction to me.”

He sat back, eyes dancing. “Which I'm all in favor of, naturally.”

 

*

 

Mycroft regarded Greg with flashing, dark-eyed fondness; his face was a picture of composure and reserve. 

"Would it shock you," he murmured, "that I envisage at least  _ some _ of it taking place outside of bed covers?" Carefully he lifted their joined hands to his mouth, tilting them to press his lips against Greg's fingers. "Perhaps you'd even share a drink with me."

 

*

 

Greg faked a gasp but couldn’t hide his smile or the brightness in his eyes. “A drink? Mr. Holmes, what kind of man do you take me for?” he demanded in faux-outrage.

He smiled and leaned forward, mirroring the press of lips against fingers. “I demand dinner as well,” he murmured, trying not to grin. “And at least  _ two _ drinks.”

 

*

 

_ How in hell's name will we hide this? _

_ Perhaps indulgence isn't wise - perhaps I... perhaps I should... _

_ Oh hell. I'm forty-six. I will indulge myself with a lover if I want to. He is beautiful. Nobody on this earth could resist him.  _

_ And he wants me. _

_ I can't possibly be expected to hold back. _

Mycroft watched Greg's eyes for a moment, all the brightness there and the mischief. It was many years since he'd had a lover. He hadn't expected to have another in this lifetime - and never one like Greg.

Smiling slightly, he said,

"We can change a walk into dinner, if you wish. We shan't be able to do this, but... we can sit and eat together. Talk. I can arrange a quieter table for us."

 

*

 

“Uh uh,” Greg said, shaking his head and rubbing his nose over their entwined hands for a moment before letting them drop. “No, I was promised a walk, and a walk it shall be.”

He grinned. “Didn’t you read the contract, Mycroft? I gotta be fed, watered, and exercised regularly or I’m liable to cause property damage. The shower curtain was just the beginning. I’ll start on the sofa next.”

Greg had always been mischievous, playful, but something about Mycroft made him more so. His heart was lighter, his soul was brighter, and he wanted to share that.

He wanted to see Mycroft smile.  _ Make _ him smile. Be the cause of that aristocratic face opening up, that mask melting away.

_ Just for me, darlin’. _

 

*

 

"If you're certain..." Mycroft let their joined hands rest between them, comfortably held - a quiet tangle of fingers that felt beautifully familiar.  _ As if we have been lovers for weeks,  _ he thought,  _ not merely hours. As if we hold hands here every morning.  _

"I have a feeling I'll be glad to return to the estate tonight... I imagine that by the evening it will be a relief." He stroked Greg's hand with his thumb gently, his eyes low, cheeks a little coloured. "For both of us."

 

*

 

“Imagine it will,” Greg agreed, smiling softly.

He looked out the window and made a quiet noise. As Jinx had predicted, they had hit traffic. Nothing much to be done for it; even Mycroft’s powers only went so far.

Greg scooted closer, leaning in. He put his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder and murmured, “I spy with my little eye something… gorgeous.”

 


	43. Besotted

As the privacy screen in the car shut, Jinx cast her large eyes sideways.

She said nothing whatsoever - merely smiled at Anthea with impish amusement, hands on the wheel in her leather driving gloves, her eyes as bright as a fountain in the sun.

She lifted her eyebrows.

 

*

 

Anthea licked her lips a little and held back her smile, but couldn’t dim the light shining in her own eyes.

She pulled her purse onto her lap and fished out a slim leather wallet. Within it were a number of cards, various forms of identification, and a few bills, all neatly arranged. 

She plucked out a twenty pound note and slipped it into the glovebox. She cast her eyes sideways and smirked. “For my half of the wine bottle,” she explained, unable to hold back the small smile any longer.

_ Lord help me. I’m actually looking forward to a £40 bottle of wine and another motorbike ride. _

_ What have you done to me, Maguire? _

 

*

 

"You’re trusting me with the selection, are you? Brave girl." 

Jinx started up the engine, pulled them out of the courtyard and away down the lane, realising she was happy just to be here. It felt like another good day was on the cards. 

"I have a feeling we got back at an inopportune moment, don’t you? It’s a wonder Greg didn’t shoot us."

 

*

 

“What gave it away?” Anthea asked, arching a brow smoothly as she began sending emails on her mobile. It was always a Sisyphean task to attempt to clear her inbox, and more so after a weekend. 

She glanced sideways, smirking a little. “Was it the state of undress, the lack of a holster, or the dermatological abnormality that suddenly appeared on Lestrade’s neck?”

Reminded by her own words, she wrote herself a memo to pick up color-correcting makeup sticks and foundation in shades that would match Mr. Holmes and Lestrade’s skin tones. 

As aesthetically pleasing as ‘dermatological abnormalities’ were, they were rather unprofessional, and Anthea was well-practiced in hiding them - hence buying products for the men. She doubted either one of them would know what to do with it when they discovered it in their bathrooms. Hopefully Lestrade, at least, would be wise enough to ask his sister for help, and then give Mr. Holmes a demonstration. 

Worst case scenario she would pull Lestrade aside, herself, and show him the proper way to hide such marks. Of course, that would probably require picking up a few abnormalities of her own somehow… purely for demonstration’s sake, of course.

The thought brought a gleam to her eye and the slightest bite of her lower lip.

 

*

 

_ "'Dermatological abnormalities',"  _ Jinx said, delighted. "Hardly  _ abnormal  _ though, is it? That's what normally happens if someone bites you while you're fucking."

She had to admit she'd spent  _ far  _ too much of the night and the morning thinking about this. After so long waiting for it to happen, it was somehow still an exciting surprise to realise that it actually  _ had. _

"Surprised, though," she said. "Honestly, I didn't have Mr Holmes down as the biting type. Then again, we don't know what Lestrade was doing to him at the time to - "

Glancing across, she spotted the little lip bite. A wary grin crossed her face.

"Who're you emailing?" she asked. "That's hell of a face to pull on a Monday morning."

 

*

 

“Classified,” Anthea said breezily, automatically. The expression cleared from her face as though it had never been.

She looked up from her mobile long enough to give Jinx an amused look. “Expand your mind, Maguire - it’s not necessarily that Mr. Holmes is the biting type. I rather suspect it’s more that Lestrade is the bitten type.” And Mr. Holmes would certainly be the accommodating type, especially for a partner like Lestrade.

She went back to her mobile and her emails, still amused. The thought of her employer and fellow employee, and what they had or hadn’t done the night before, would be attempting to distract her all day. Best to gossip about it now, lest it get to her at an inopportune moment.

 

*

 

Jinx chuckled quietly. She supposed she could see it - professional muscle, enjoying a bit of a nip behind closed doors. She hoped they made each other happy. Judging by the way Mr Holmes was reflecting all nearby sources of light today, Greg had done  _ something  _ right, at least.

It looked as if things would be getting remarkably easy from now on.

Mr Holmes's security was now second-to-none - with not one but two security professionals living under his roof, one of whom would be sleeping right there next to him all night. Jinx might as well blow her cover now, and...

_ And then what?  _

She supposed Greg's presence at Mr Holmes's side made her a little irrelevant now. Whenever Jinx was with Mr Holmes, Greg was there too. She couldn't add all that much to an emergency situation anymore.

It was a cosy enough posting, of course. For a professional driver, it was a dream job.

For an MI5 agent, it was... a little sedate, maybe. That was nothing new. Jinx supposed there'd always been the faint chance something  _ would  _ happen, and she'd need to be there for it. 

With Greg though, even that 'just in case' scenario fell away.

If she was doing the honourable thing, she'd tell her superiors that her presence in the house wasn't necessary anymore. She'd give them the chance to reassign her. Covert security was costly - there were better places her skills could be put to use. Like all other agents, she was a tool - a mechanism - her duty was wherever the country needed her to be, and right now, the British nation could sleep easily at night. Mr Holmes would be sleeping easily beside his Greg. Everything was settled.

_ Still. _

Jinx shifted a little in her seat, fishing the remote for the gates from her pocket. 

_ Like it here.  _

_ With them all.  _

_ Christ, am I really thinking about giving up MI6 work to become an actual driver? Suppose I'll live a lot longer...  _

Deciding this sort of contemplation could wait for another time, Jinx reached for the radio and switched on something quiet. She didn't bother with the traffic report - they were going to hit it, no doubt about that. Hearing how bad it was wouldn't help matters.

"I'm glad," she said in the end, smiling. "The pair of them. D'you think they know we know?"

 

*

 

Anthea leaned back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other. “I suspect,” she said, fishing in her purse for her reading glasses, “that it is a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ scenario. If I was pressed, I would further suspect that Mr. Holmes suspects that I, at least, know.”

She found her glasses and perched them on her nose. A file came out of the satchel at her feet and she began reading it.

_ Thank God I don’t get carsick. _

“Mr. Holmes has always trusted his employees to be discreet with all kinds of information, both personal and professional,” she continued, grabbing a pen to mark the file with. “Lestrade, I would imagine, hasn’t given it much thought one way or the other.”

 

*

 

"I guess we can work with  _ 'don't ask, don't tell'... _ and let's be honest here. Mr Holmes isn't stupid. Of course he knows you'll know. We'll just have to keep things quiet for them, and hope the higher-ups don't get wind of anything..."

As time was going by, Jinx was forgetting more and more often to keep up the charade in front of Anthea that she was just a driver here. It was easy to do. 

Sometimes in her head, she told herself Anthea had known from day one and just chosen to keep it quiet. She wouldn't put it past the woman.

"What do we do if Mrs Collins starts poking around?" She cast Anthea a sly look. "Want me to ditch her at a slightly further Sainsburys? Just say the word."

 

*

 

Anthea tossed her a disapproving look that wasn’t quite as sharp as it should have been. “Mr. Holmes wanted me to remind you that even though we’ve all  _ thought _ about abandoning Mrs. Collins at Sainsburys, there is a difference between thought and action, and I will not have you getting me to approve of your shenanigans.”

_ Shenanigans. As if abandoning another member of the household at the supermarket were akin to shortsheeting a bed. _

She tossed her hair a little and pushed her glasses up her nose. “No, I’m sure leaving the poor woman won’t be necessary.” She affected an exasperated expression. “I’m sure if I express an interest in the son of one of her gin club members, she’ll forget all about Mr. Holmes and Lestrade. She’ll die of rapture planning my wedding.”

Her lips tightened and she glared, just a little, at the file in her hands, and circled a phrase perhaps a tad viciously. “She and my mother can go into paroxysms of joy over the thought of me being interested in dating, marriage, and settling down.”

 

*

 

Jinx's heart tightened slightly.

_ Weird.  _

_ Shouldn't bother me. _

Christ, how many people had Anthea eaten her way through since they'd worked together? Jinx didn't really care to name a figure.  Plenty. 

And it hardly mattered.

But the thought of Mrs Collins setting up a wedding... arranging Anthea a proper boyfriend. Someone to call at the house with a carnation in his buttonhole and his hair slicked back. Jinx already wanted to punch him in the face, and he didn't exist.

_ Different when it's just sex.  _

Jinx kept it off her face, trying not to frown. She didn't quite understand her own reaction. She wondered if it was protectiveness - she'd never heard Anthea say things like this. It looked as if the cause of yesterday's distress was making itself known, either way.

More things to think about later.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, she said,

"Tell your mum you're marrying a decorated lance corporal. Been a whirlwind. Then I'll show up to dinner, make loads of dirty jokes and ask your mum if she's got any spare cigs. We'll tell them you're taking my name. We're off to Disneyland for the honeymoon. Send them a glossy picture of us with Mickey. She'll love it."

 

*

 

Anthea couldn’t help it. She giggled softly at the thought of her mother’s face upon meeting Jinx, at the thought of being married and then going to  _ Disneyland _ for a honeymoon.

_ Oh God. Mother might actually faint. Truly, not just her dramatic fanning. _

She glanced over slyly. “I’d take your name, hm? Anthea Maguire.”

Her expression twisted thoughtfully. “Hm. Has an okay ring to it, but I think we could do better.”

Her head turned fully so she could look at the driver squarely. “Got any other names I could consider taking?”

 

*

 

_ Clever girl. _

Jinx's face showed nothing at all - not a flicker. She kept her eyes on the road, her tone light and her smile beneath the surface.

"You can take any of my names you like, princess. Considering I've only got three, the pickings are a bit slim though. How does 'Mrs Jinx' sound?"

She fiddled with the radio, switching channels until something poppy came on.

"Had an ex used to call me 'Bunny', but you probably won't want that one either."

 

*

 

“No, I think not,” Anthea said loftily. “Anthea Atwood-Hayes I’ll have to remain, then.” 

She marked off a section of the file, humming faintly to the tune on the radio. One of the interns played the song incessantly; she was certain it would now be stuck in her head for the rest of her life. For the rest of the day, certainly.

It was easier to think about the irritating pop song than to examine the slight curl of jealousy in her stomach at the thought of an ex-lover of Jinx’s.

_ I am not the jealous type, and - _

_ We aren’t - _

_ Things aren’t like that between us. Apparently. _

From their interactions so far, it was as if the previous night hadn’t happened at all. Her tears, the kiss, the holding of hands, the intimacy of being alone together under the stars  - as though none of it had happened at all.

Anthea couldn’t stop the disappointment from settling beside the small ball of jealousy, but she could keep it off her face. That, at least, she was familiar with.

 

* * *

Mycroft had three meetings, spread throughout the day.

Greg was as good as gold in all three.

It was no small relief to Mycroft. Keeping his eyes off Greg was a monumental task in its own right; the slightest reason for distraction could have been fatal today. He had a feeling Greg was even positioning himself out of sight on purpose. His familiar, protective presence was impossible to put from Mycroft's mind - and frankly, today of all days, he didn't want to put Greg from his mind - but he found himself able to focus on what he was saying, calmer, relieved not to stealing glances at his bodyguard every other moment. 

By the end of the third meeting, his heart was almost aching with gratitude.

Greg had made this easy for him. This was the first day, and it would be the worst day. All Mycroft wanted was to look at his lover - but it would get easier with time. 

As Greg followed him quietly from one appointment to the next, shadowed him during lunch at the foreign office, and helped Anthea carry files to the car at the end of the day, Mycroft was keenly and desperately aware of him. He wanted to reach out and take Greg's hand, weave their fingers gently. It felt like it would be the most natural, understandable thing in the world.

And what a treat it would have been to the rest of the foreign office, for Mycroft Holmes to shyly take his bodyguard's hand on the way into lunch.

Throughout the day, as they pretended that Greg was invisible, Mycroft found himself realising more and more what the man meant to him. It was almost painful not being able to acknowledge Greg. Their few minutes alone were always at risk of interruption, and Mycroft didn't dare let down his guard for a moment - not when Greg was taking such care to honour the need for secrecy. 

In the late afternoon, Mycroft took to his office with a request not to be disturbed. He made it known that he wanted to concentrate on several pressing matters, to permit him a free evening without interruption. No-one thought anything of it. Mycroft worked doggedly, slashing through his mental to-do list one item after another, all of his heart focused on five PM - on the drive home, and the evening ahead.

On Greg.

As soon as they settled into the car, and the privacy screen was closed, Mycroft moved at once along the seat.

"Thank heavens," he whispered, taking Greg's face in his hands. His expression ached with need. "Come here..."

He pressed his mouth to Greg's, winding his fingers at once through his lover's hair.

It was almost twenty minutes before they surfaced for air.

Back at the house, Mrs Collins had made grilled chicken with roasted vine tomatoes for dinner. It was very pleasant. Mycroft didn't taste a mouthful of it, too busy engrossed in playful conversation with Greg, sitting together at one end of the dining table with a half-bottle of red wine between them. They barely seemed to notice the rest of the household as they ate.

Mrs Collins wasn't speaking to Jinx. She gave her the smallest portion of chicken, with one less tomato than everyone else, and 'forgot' to offer her custard with her sticky toffee pudding.

Jinx gave Anthea a pained glance but said nothing, accepting her punishment with a bitten lip.

When everyone was nearly finished, Mycroft glanced at the clock above the fireplace. It was almost half past seven; wine was fogging his faculties a little. His eyes had grown rather soft and bright, and it was getting harder not to stroke Greg's knee under the table. He could feel the very gentlest beginnings of  _ slutty drunk  _ kicking in, and the thought that Greg might be able to relieve him of this problem was becoming rather tricky to conceal.

"I fear we might have missed our slot for an evening walk," he murmured, taking another sip of wine and eyeing Greg over the rim. His eyes glittered. "I shall have to find some other way to burn off my dessert."

 

*

 

Greg grinned over his own glass of wine, eyes bright. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something, sir,” he said reassuringly, taking a sip of wine. 

The day had been torture, pure and simple. Having to essentially pack himself away, be nothing more than a well-dressed gun in the corner; it was harder than he wanted to admit. Pretending to be just employer and employee, not lovers… it had taken all of his acting skills and years of training, and he hadn’t wanted to do it. He was sure Mycroft hadn’t wanted it, either.

But this wasn’t about what they wanted. It was about what had to happen, to keep them both safe and out of trouble. Need, not want.

The twenty minute snogging session in the car had soothed any worries Greg had about whether or not Mycroft had come to his senses, so to speak.

He leaned in to murmur something, having completely forgotten about the other members of the household.

 

*

 

_ Oh, for God’s sake, you two. Make it a little more difficult to see how besotted you are, would you? Even Mrs. Collins will figure it out at this rate. If I have to go on another date to save your sorry heads, Mr. Holmes’ bank account will be feeling it, and no mistake. _

Anthea cleared her throat and stood, bringing her empty plate with her. “Thank you, Mrs. Collins, for the lovely meal,” she said, smiling prettily at the housekeeper. “Absolutely delicious, as always.”

She turned to the two men. “Mr. Holmes, if you have no further need of me this evening, I’ll be returning to my flat for the night. I will meet you in London tomorrow morning, if that suits?”

It was phrased as a question, but was flavored as a statement. No real room for argument there.

Not that she imagined anyone would be upset about her leaving for the night. One less person to worry about overhearing… anything.

 

*

 

Mycroft - grinning at whatever had just been murmured in his ear, with a distinct flush now sitting high in his cheeks - looked up at Anthea, his grin settling into a smile.

"Mm? Oh - yes, of course. You're quite excused, Anthea. I don't intend to work this evening. We'll resume the battle tomorrow morning at nine."

At the opposite end of the table, another person had lifted their head.

Jinx regarded Anthea with quiet curiosity, her gaze a little bright. 

"Can I give you a lift?" she said. "Give me five minutes to get changed, and I can take you."

 

*

 

_ I just bet you don’t intend to work tonight, sir, _ Anthea thought, fondly amused. She looked at Jinx and tilted her head. “If you wish,” she said. “I’ll meet you out front.”

She strode out of the kitchen, collected her satchel and purse, and dashed off a couple quick text messages to several unnamed contacts before heading outside to wait.

Mr. Holmes and Lestrade wouldn’t be the only ones having a very good night tonight.

 


	44. The Difference

Jinx rolled up in the car just a few minutes later, smiling from the driver's seat with her tie loose around her neck and no hat. She nudged the door open for Anthea, turned down the radio and fished a packet of mints from the glovebox, offering one.

"Got everything?" she said.

She was wearing cologne. A slight halo on the open white neck of her shirt attested to the recentness of the spray.

There was also an overnight bag in the boot: toothbrush, underwear, cigarettes. All the essentials. 

She'd have to leave Anthea by seven, to get to Mr Holmes by eight.

Until then, Lestrade could take the watch. 

 

*

 

_ Interesting. _

_ Very interesting. _

“Yes,” was all Anthea said. She took the mint and popped it into her mouth, sitting down and buckling her seatbelt.

She let her hair down and shook it out, allowing the last remnants of her perfume to mingle with the smell of Jinx’s fresh cologne.

She couldn’t deny that the two smells together were… rather tantalizing.

 

*

 

"Good," Jinx said, turned the radio back up, and pulled them away from the house.

They were on the motorway headed towards London by the time she spoke again. Traffic was light; they'd be there in good time. The roads were almost peaceful this time in the evening.

"Hey," she said, her eyes fixed ahead. "Tell me about last night. I need to know."

 

*

 

Anthea inhaled slightly, shoulders tightening fractionally. “I’m going to need you to be more specific than that,” she said, voice smooth and even. “What part of last night, exactly?”

_ Do you mean what kicked it off? _

_ Why I asked you to take me away? _

_ Why I cried in your arms? _

_ Why I kissed you? _

_ What part, exactly? _

 

*

 

Jinx's head was a whirlwind for a few moments. She tried to decide which part she needed to know; she had a funny feeling it was all of them. 

It took her a while to know what to say.

At last, checking the truck behind them in the wing mirror, she said,

"D'you regret it?" She kept her face calm and neutral, her tone level - as if Anthea could answer either way. "Would you take it back?"

 

*

 

Now there was an interesting question, and one Anthea hadn’t been expecting. She sat silently for a long minute, thinking it over.

The other woman deserved an honest answer, and Anthea would give it to her.

Finally, she lifted her eyes to look at Jinx. “No,” she said, certain. “I don’t regret it, and I wouldn’t take it back. I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

Her heart clenched. She had to know. “Would you?” Her tone was just as level and neutral as Jinx’s had been, as if the answer could go one way or the other and Anthea couldn’t care less either way.

 

*

 

"No," Jinx said without a pause. "'Course I wouldn't." 

She glanced sideways from the wheel, a flick of her eyes - she needed to keep the car steady, but she couldn't  _ not _ look at Anthea right now. The half-second of eye contact was all she dared to give. It was from the heart, though.

"I don't regret things," she said, returning her gaze to the road. "Ever. Life's too short. And if I was  _ going  _ to regret something, it wouldn't be last night."

Her grip tightened on the wheel.

"What makes you happy?" she asked. "I mean... day-to-day. What makes you think...  _ 'yep, things are good right now'?" _

 

*

 

Anthea blinked a little, startled. Apparently, Jinx was just full of surprises this evening.

She hummed softly in the back of her throat, crossing one leg over the other. She shifted the mint in her mouth, enjoying the refreshing flavor as she pondered the question.

“When things are going smoothly,” she said eventually. “At work. There’s always something to be doing, but when everything is bubbling away under control… I suppose that’s when I think things are going well.” 

_ When Mr. Holmes is happy. _ She left that bit unspoken, though she wouldn’t have been surprised if Jinx could hear it all the same.

Perhaps it was a sad commentary on her life that satisfaction came when her job was going smoothly, when her employer was happy, but it wasn’t as if her personal life was much to speak of. It was going as well as it had ever gone; she couldn’t really say it made her happy or unhappy. It simply was what it was.

She tilted her head, curious. “Why do you ask?”

 

*

 

Jinx smiled a little, shaking her head. 

"That's when things are  _ fine,"  _ she said. "That's just 'when there's no major disasters'. That's not happiness. Happiness is out of the ordinary, darlin'. It's more than just... 'nothing is wrong'. I'm talking about what makes you  _ happy." _

She took a moment to gather her courage. If she was wrong about all this, it didn't matter - they weren't far out of London. She could drop Anthea at her flat, head back to the estate and they'd forget about it all over again. They'd decide once more to put whatever this was aside, and pretend it didn't keep coming back. They'd let it go.

It was worth trying, though. 

"Seems like for a while last night, you were happy. It wasn't just 'things aren't disastrous'. Things  _ were  _ disastrous, and you were still...  _ more  _ than that. You were above the clouds. Just for a little while." 

She glanced up into the rear view mirror.

"What made the difference, darlin'?" she asked.

 

*

 

Anthea huffed a little through her nose, a faint smile on her face. She closed her eyes, shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe that Jinx was asking her the question at all.

She supposed she’d have to say it. If this all went south - turned out to be a mistake - she would get out at her apartment, pretend nothing had happened between the pair of them.

Even though something had. Something had made Anthea happy - truly  _ happy _ \- for the first time in what was apparently a long time.

_ Darlin’. Princess. As if I’m someone special. _

_ As if I mean something. _

_ Well. Let’s see if I do. _

She opened her eyes and raised her head, meeting Jinx’s gaze in the mirror. “You, Jessamine. You made the difference.” Her voice was quiet but steady. No hesitation in her words.

 

*

 

Jinx held her gaze for a moment, the corner of her mouth gently lifting. She checked the road again, making sure they were safe, and sat back a little in her seat.

"Best ring your mum then, gorgeous," she said, the half-smile still on her face. "Looks like we're going to Disneyland."

 

*

 

“As much as making someone happy should be a requirement for a marriage,” Anthea said, amused, “I’m pretty sure it needs to be founded on a little bit more than that.”

She combed her fingers through her hair. “Besides. I expect a proper proposal,” she said, sniffing haughtily. “Down on one knee, in front of a large crowd of strangers, preferably somewhere they’ll give us a free dessert out of it. Candles, roses, champagne. I have very high standards.”

 

*

 

Jinx fought a smile with all her worth. It didn't work.

"Shame we're going to your flat then, really. Unless you've got a large crowd of strangers hired ready, and by 'candles', you'll be cool with a cigarette."

 

*

 

“If you smoke in my flat,” Anthea said, giving Jinx a look, “I will toss you out. With prejudice.”

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “That goes for just lighting the cigarette as well. I have plenty of candles, so there’s no need for you to try to create ‘ambience’.”

Her mobile dinged with a text message. She huffed through her nose and sent a reply, then sent three others in rapid succession.

There was plenty of entertainment right beside her. No need for any more tonight.

 

*

 

Jinx grinned, reaching back into the glovebox for mints.  _ If I can't smoke, gorgeous, what're we going to do afterwards?  _

She was sure Anthea would have some ideas. 

 

*

 

The rest of the drive was made in relative silence. It was nearly a mirror of the morning’s drive, in fact; the radio on, Anthea in glasses and working on a file, Jinx focused on the road ahead.

Key differences could be spotted, of course. Jinx’s lack of a hat and loosened tie (not to mention her cologne), Anthea’s slightly rumpled clothing, the fact that the tip of the pen kept migrating to land between her teeth.

And, of course, the trained observer would spot that Anthea reached out more than once and trailed her fingers along Jinx’s thigh in an idle, almost automatic gesture.

In Anthea’s case, it was a calculated idleness; a signal for her intentions for the evening. She certainly didn’t want to risk a miscommunication at this stage of the game.

When they arrived outside her flat, and Jinx parked in tenant parking rather than visitor parking, Anthea smirked. “Coming in, then?” she asked, gathering her accoutrements from beside her and at her feet.

 

*

 

Jinx grinned, pressing the button for the trunk.  _ This is it. Here we go.  _

_ After all this time. _

"Yep," she said, eased from the car and grabbed her small sports bag from the back, slinging it loosely around her shoulder. She made sure the car was locked, certain Mr Holmes wouldn't appreciate having his Jag nicked overnight while Jinx was otherwise engaged. Abandoning Mrs Collins at Sainsburys for seven hours would suddenly become a lesser crime.

As she followed Anthea to the door, Jinx reached out to catch her hand. Their fingers wove; though gentle, the hold had security to it. 

_ This is happening. Really happening. _

Jinx managed to wait until Anthea opened her purse to find her key.

She then stepped close behind her, slipped an arm around her waist, and nosed aside the soft curls of her hair. She smelled of expensive perfume, warm skin and good decisions.

Jinx nuzzled into her neck for a little more of that scent. Her eyes closed, mouth curving, her hand lying flat and gently possessive on Anthea's stomach.

"Don't think I've ever smelled someone as good as you," she rumbled.

 

*

 

Anthea shivered a little, and, to her surprise, found heat rising in her cheeks.

_ A blush. Heaven help me. _

She couldn’t remember the last time she had accidentally blushed.

She leaned backwards into the embrace for a moment, letting her head tilt to the side, before straightening and fitting the key in the lock. A twist of key and knob, and she stepped inside, pulling Jinx with her.

She kept the other woman at arm’s length for a moment while she disarmed, then rearmed the alarm system - she didn’t want the local constabulary here because she had punched it in wrong, distracted by a partner.

One occurrence of that was quite enough for anyone.

Once the trivialities such as safety were taken care of, however, Anthea wasted no time in pulling Jinx close. She, herself, leaned back against the door and pulled her partner towards her, arms wrapped around her waist and nose at her collarbone, breathing in the scent of motor oil and cologne.

“I have to return the compliment,” she purred, nosing at Jinx’s neck. “You smell absolutely divine.”

 

*

 

"Mm hmm?" Jinx eased a little closer, pressing her body into Anthea’s and up against the door. They fitted rather perfectly, soft female curves nestling together.  _ Christ, at last. At long fucking last. _ Jinx let her hands move to Anthea's waist, just settling there to feel the warmth of her body beneath her top - the promise of all those curves she’d slyly watched for years, now pinned between her and a locked door. They had all night. Jinx intended to make use of it. 

She slid a foot slyly between Anthea’s; it brought her thigh to press just lightly at Anthea's groin.

Reaching up she curled a single finger beneath Anthea’s chin, and lifted her pretty face. Her hold was gentle, but with a firmness and confidence of touch that few would recognise in Mr Holmes’s driver. She wasn’t wearing the mask tonight. It had slipped enough already - Anthea knew. She  _ must _ know. She knew, and she was caring not to say.

"No more waiting," Jinx murmured, leaning close to press her mouth against those full, beautiful lips. 

 

*

 

_ Finally _ .

A soft noise escaped from Anthea’s throat and got lost in the kiss. The door at her back, the hand on her waist, the finger beneath her chin, the thigh between hers - it was all exactly the kind of thing she liked, and very rarely got. Too often she found herself as the leader in her liaisons.

Jinx was clearly not a follower. She was a leader, and by God Anthea was going to revel in it.

She arched forward just enough to tease them both, hips rocking and drawing another little noise from her throat. One hand snaked down to clutch Jinx’s hip, pulling her close, the other came to rest on the back of her neck, deepening the kiss.

_ Perfect. _

 

*

 

Jinx was all too happy to come closer. She pressed Anthea a little harder against the door, parted her lips with her tongue and slowly explored her mouth, eyes closed, heart beating a lazy larghetto. This was perfect; there was no need to rush a thing.

She eased her hands into Anthea's hair, loosening her curls gently, then framed her face in both hands as they kissed. She could feel heat burning its way slowly through her body already, her fingertips longing for the warmth of bare skin. 

_ Christ, what are you wearing under that blouse?  _ The thought cut Jinx's breath for a moment. There was an audible catch in the kiss, which immediately grew more restless.  _ My pretty posh girl. Let me stop you thinking for a while, mm? Make you happy for a while. _

Releasing Anthea's jaw gently, Jinx's hands skimmed their way over her shoulders. They trailed light as air over her breasts, barely skimming, then down to her waist, sliding almost liquidly with her curves around to her magnificent arse, cupping there, holding her still as Jinx pressed ever closer. She made sure her thigh rubbed in just the right place.

_ Fuck. I bet I can make you scream. _

 

*

  
  


_ Oh God, yes. _

Anthea’s breath caught in her throat as Jinx’s leg moved just so. Heat crawled over her, moving under her skin like sparks. Not demanding, yet, but need would grow in time.

Her skirt was already starting to ride up, hemline migrating from just above her knees to sit a little higher on her thighs. She wanted it higher, wanted it  _ off; _ it felt too restrictive, it and the matching blazer she was wearing.

She made a soft noise and stepped away from the door, pushing Jinx back at the same time. Every nerve screamed at her, furious at the loss of contact, but she controlled it with ease. Anticipation would make everything all the sweeter.

Her eyes, bright with lust, caught the other woman’s gaze. Anthea inhaled sharply and smiled, slow and seductive. 

_ Slowly. We have time. _

Steadying herself with one hand on Jinx’s shoulder, she carefully removed her spike-heel stilettos, nearly four inches tall, setting them beside the door neatly. The blazer, already undone, she started to shrug off, then paused, catching Jinx’s eye.

A smirk, a lowering of lashes. “I’m sorry, did you want the pleasure of taking my jacket?” she offered, the edge of a purr in her voice. She said  _ pleasure _ like she meant  _ honour. _

_ Undress me. I know you want to. _

_ I want you to. _

 

*

 

Jinx’s eyes glittered. Her pupils were big and dark, her mouth just curved at the corners. 

“Always happy to help...” she murmured, stepped close and slipped her hands up to Anthea’s shoulders. She eased the jacket off with care, down one arm and then the other, and let the fabric fall abandoned to the floor. 

_ Don’t care about that. Care about you. _

Coaxing Anthea back into her arms, Jinx’s hands drifted once more to her rump. Anthea was now the perfect height to be held there. There was something a little possessive in Jinx’s grip, a little demanding, pulling Anthea close and nuzzling into her neck. They were comfortably equal height when Anthea was in her stilettos; without them, Jinx had to dip just a little. 

It felt just right. 

“Is there somewhere comfortable I can take you?” Jinx murmured, squeezing Anthea’s backside slowly. “Before I lose my mind, pull you down onto the carpet, and rip the buttons off that blouse.”

 

*

 

It said something about the depth of her desire that Anthea spared only a moment of thought for her jacket - not even enough to make her consider stepping away to pick it up.

Of course, stepping away would cause a dislodging of hands from her rear, and  _ that _ was simply unacceptable. The gentle massage was sending a lovely frisson up and down the length of her spine. It felt like Jinx’s hands had been made to curve over her body, and she wanted more.

She hummed softly and wrapped her arms around Jinx’s neck, pressing herself close. “As it so happens,” she murmured, nosing the skin behind her ear, “I do have a bedroom here. The bed is quite comfortable, and comes with the added benefit of not giving anyone carpet burn.”

Anthea placed a kiss where her nose had been resting and pulled away, taking Jinx’s hands with a sly smile. “Shoes off at the door, if you please,” she said, tossing her hair a little. “And then an abbreviated tour.”

 

*

 

_ The 'abbreviated tour',  _ Jinx thought.

_ "This is the hall. This is the bed. These are my inner thighs." _

She bent down, loosened the laces of her vans, and slipped her sock feet out of them. She left them discarded on the floor and wove her fingers through Anthea's again, ready to be shown to her station for the night.

 


	45. More

Anthea gave a faint smile and squeezed Jinx’s fingers gently, pulling her away from the entryway and down the hall. She gave a perfunctory descriptor of each room as they passed it - “Kitchen” “Living room” “Office” “Bathroom” - but didn’t linger on details. None of those rooms were important tonight.

The star of the show was her bedroom, which they arrived in quickly. She pushed open the door and tugged Jinx in, already beginning to smirk in anticipation.

_ This is finally happening. _ Anthea could feel her skin tingling with heat and want already. That was interesting; it wasn’t as if it had been all  _ that _ long since her last night of fun. 

If she were being honest with herself, she knew that it was her partner that was eliciting the response in her. She wanted Jinx, had wanted her for some time, and had actually had to  _ try _ to get her. That was new; that was exciting.

And now she had her. She was going to take full advantage of that.

She pulled the woman close and molded their bodies together, wrapping her arms around Jinx’s waist and capturing her mouth in a languid kiss.

 

*

 

Easing her arms around Anthea in turn, holding her carefully and demonstrating the sort of multi-point focus that once had her driving armoured vehicles under gunfire, Jinx walked Anthea slowly backwards towards the bed. The kiss didn't break; it didn't skip at all. She felt the moment that the back of Anthea's calves bumped against the end, and very gently lowered her backwards to lie atop the covers, their mouths still stroking each other without a pause.

_ Pretty red blouse. Let's see how pretty you look on the floor.  _ As they kissed, almost lazily, Jinx untucked the blouse from Anthea's skirt and helped herself to the delicate little buttons, working slowly and slyly from hem up to neck. When the last one came undone, with her tongue still cosily acquainting itself with Anthea's inside her lover's mouth, Jinx stroked the silk apart and let her fingertips brush Anthea's breasts as they descended, skimming over her bare stomach to the waistband of her skirt. A casual brush around the top of it, and Jinx discovered the zip at the side.

Harder to be sly than with a blouse, but there was still some grace and elegance to be had. Jinx undid the fastening carefully, searching Anthea's mouth with the same idle enjoyment, then let their lips come apart to kiss her way down.

She'd meant to descend straight to the waistband of the skirt, ease it down and off, then come back up to enjoy her prize - but as soon as she nuzzled into the soft valley of Anthea's breasts, intrigued by black lace lingerie with a lattice-pattern of pretty straps, Jinx found herself distracted somewhat from the original plan. Anthea's skin was perfumed and perfectly smooth, almost creamy beneath Jinx's mouth, and kissing softly across her breasts unfolded into reaching up to cup them with her hands, rounding them longingly and unable to resist a slow squeeze. Anthea had the kind of body that made sex feel like the first time. She was so curved, so  _ female,  _ so  _ gorgeous  _ that Jinx forgot at once she'd ever had the pleasure of other women. There couldn't possibly have been anyone before Anthea. Nothing in the world had ever felt like this.

"Fuck me up..." she murmured against Anthea's breasts, mouthing across her bra with a slow shiver. Her fingers lingered, lost, at the open zip of Anthea's skirt. She knew she'd been planning on doing something else at this stage, but she was just going to have to stay here for the night. 

Finding the slight bump of an erect nipple, she nosed at it slowly through Anthea's bra, gazing up through her eyelashes to watch the reaction.

_ Fucking hell, I need to watch you come. Five times. Fifty times. Look how fucking beautiful you are. _

 

*

 

Unbidden and unfeigned, a soft, high noise left Anthea’s throat, slipping through her parted lips with ease.

_ Oh Lord. _ The heat and desire in Jinx’s eyes, Anthea was used to. She knew what she looked like, how well-formed she was.

But the  _ worship _ , that was new. Like she was something special, like she deserved to be caressed and treasured and adored.

That expression, more than anything, even more than the mouth at her breasts or the hands at her waist, drew another gasp from her as heat washed through her, settling under her skin with a steady thrum.

Her spine arched a little, pressing her breasts upwards in offer. “Touch me,” she breathed, head falling back and hair spilling over the sheets. “Please.”

Thank heavens Jinx was a woman; she, at least, wouldn’t rip Anthea’s lingerie off her body. The pieces she was wearing this evening were… rather expensive. Silk, lace, Swarovski crystals; such things weren’t cheap.

But they were beautiful, and Jinx was clearly beguiled by them, so Anthea considered it a worthy expense. 

Well. Perhaps she was beguiled by the curves the lingerie contained. Either was good.

 

*

 

Jinx ran both hands carefully down Anthea's sides, following the pretty arching of her hips. Her fingertips encountered the waistband she'd abandoned, slipped beneath it, and Jinx nuzzled her way down Anthea's stomach.

When she reached it, she took the fabric's edge between her teeth - lightly, not hard enough to mark - and with her eyes still turned up the bed, she dragged it slowly downwards.

She slipped off the end of the bed to free it from Anthea's ankles. When it was pooled on the floor beside her, Jinx leant down and kissed each stockinged foot gently - then rose from her knees to her feet.

She stood at the end of the bed for a moment, gazing down at Anthea - just taking in the sight.

 

*

 

Anthea purred happily and wriggled out of her shirt entirely, letting the red silk fabric frame her in a most attractive manner. Her arms rose and settled above her head, allowing the lines of her body to elongate and arch sensually.

She knew what a pretty picture she made, and she wanted Jinx to enjoy it.

But… not for  _ too _ long. She brought one foot up to rest on the bed, bending her knee. The other foot she reached out and hooked behind Jinx’s leg, encouraging her forward.

“You,” she breathed, eyelids half-shut, “are wearing far too much clothing.”

 

*

 

Jinx bit calmly into the corner of her lip.

"Yeah?" she murmured. "Better fix that for you." She reached for the single button on her jacket, twisting it casually open. An idle backward roll of her shoulders loosened it down her arms, then with a shrug it slipped to the floor. 

Belt, next - unbuckled as if they had all the time in the world. Her eyes didn't leave Anthea's as she untucked her white shirt, then started working her way upward through the buttons.

"I know people who'd kill to see you lying there." She meant every word of it. It wasn't a turn of phrase. She knew people who'd end a human life, any human life, to be standing where she was standing right now. She knew people who'd do it without a blink. "You're too good for the likes of me. You know that?"

 

*

 

Anthea’s lip had found its way between her teeth, resting there idly as her gaze flicked between Jinx’s eyes and her hands, watching buttons and expression alike.

“Well, luckily for you,” she said, voice low and rich, a slight smirk on her lips, “that decision isn’t up to you, is it?”

Her toes, clad in expensive stockings, slid up and down the back of Jinx’s thigh slowly, teasing with light pressure.

“And I’ve got a special deal on tonight,” she continued, shifting on the sheets, spine arching as she stretched. “You don’t have to kill anyone to have me. All you have to do…” Her eyes found Jinx’s, pupils wide and glittering. “...is make me come. Think you can manage that?”

 

*

 

Jinx's eyes glittered in return. She kept her cool entirely, finishing the last button with a deft flick of her fingers. 

"D'you normally have to request that specially?" she murmured. "Kinda comes as part of the service with me. Frankly, that's the basic package. You're not getting the basic package."

As she shrugged her shirt off, freeing shoulders honed by war and active service, Jinx held Anthea's gaze. She let it fall to the floor somewhere with Anthea's shirt and her jacket. She was going to look like a shagged, crumpled mess at work tomorrow; she only hoped Greg managed to distract Mr Holmes enough that he didn't notice. With the house to themselves, she imagined they were making the most of it.

Loosening the last of her belt, she undid the fastening of her work trousers and removed them with idle disinterest, slipping off her socks at the same time. Jinx's underwear was neither silk nor lace, without a single Swarovski crystal. It was navy, functional and athletic.

Then, she didn't imagine it would be staying on all that long.

Now more comfortable, Jinx duly returned herself to the bed. 

 

*

 

“It happens more often than you might think,” Anthea said dryly, rolling her eyes a little. More than once, she had had to pin a partner to the bed and demand that they not leave until they satisfied her.

Somehow, she doubted that would be an issue tonight.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows and shook her hair back out of her eyes, smiling slowly. “If I’m not getting the basic package, what  _ am _ I getting?” she purred.

Her gaze flickered over Jinx’s toned shoulders and abdomen, eyes brightening. She wanted to explore those planes, feel the contrast between soft skin and firm muscle with lips and fingertips.

The thought of what Jinx could do with those muscles sent a little delicious shiver down her spine, which she did nothing to hide.

 

*

 

As Jinx made her way up the bed to Anthea, crawling with the slow and controlled movement of a jungle cat, she gave her a fond frown - as if it were obvious.

"You're getting whatever the hell you want, gorgeous," she said, easing herself between Anthea's thighs. "For as long as you want. As many times as you want."

She leant down to Anthea's beautiful neck.

"Because you're beautiful," she murmured, and stroked her mouth from shoulder to ear, a brush of lips and tongue and just the gentle edge of her teeth. "Because it's an honour. Because anyone who gets to see you like this has a fucking  _ duty _ to make you come until you can't bear it any longer."

 

*

 

“Oh my,” Anthea breathed, a little startled and more than a little flattered. “Well, I  _ do _ like the sound of that.”

Her legs spread easily, making room for Jinx between her thighs. Her hands came up and curved over Jinx’s shoulders, exploring the muscle there before tracing over her shoulder blades and spine delicately.

Her chin lifted and tilted, giving more access to her skin. “And you haven’t even seen me completely nude yet,” she murmured. “What a treat that will be for both of us.”

 

*

 

"Few times in my dreams," Jinx admitted, flashing her tongue across the shell of Anthea's ear. "Not sure it's going to live up to the real thing though." 

She trailed her way back down Anthea's neck, taking several moments just to breathe in her perfume and the way it had warmed on her skin. Weight braced on one arm, she let the other hand glide the length of Anthea's body - taking in the soft rise of her breasts, down onto her smooth and pretty stomach, round to follow the curve of her waist right down and slide snugly beneath her rump. Anthea was simply glorious to feel. Every little bit of her was satisfying.

_ Christ, these breasts...  _

Jinx now understood why most people in Anthea's vicinity immediately turned into fifteen-year-old boys. Somehow she'd have to control herself at work tomorrow, remembering this. She'd have to try and forget she'd been here: nuzzling the silk of this pretty bra, investigating all its lace and interesting details, while gently palming Anthea's backside. It was hard to go slow. Anthea probably had enough panicking men stampede straight towards her knickers in a frenzy. Jinx hoped she had a little more control than that.

Raising her hand again, she cupped Anthea's breasts and mouthed at them slowly, teasing the silk with the heat of her breath. After a short while, with a shiver she couldn't quite repress, she gently squeezed and pressed Anthea's breasts together, stroking her tongue slowly across the deep line of her cleavage. The restless padding of her hands was growing a little rougher.

_ Nnh. Posh girl. Pretty girl. Want to -  _

_ Patience -  _

_ Christ, patience - _

 

*

 

Anthea whined softly, low in her throat. The urge to wiggle under Jinx’s hands was growing stronger, harder to ignore and deny. Her own hands slid over Jinx’s well-muscled back, feeling the shift and ripple as she moved.

Her hands curved around to settle at the defined waist, massaging there gently.

_ God, I want you… _

As Jinx’s tongue slid over the valley of her cleavage, she couldn’t hold back the soft moan that fell from her lips, followed by a hitch in her breathing. All the different textures at play over her skin - wet, cool, rough, soft, lace, silk - were conspiring to drive her mad.

“Please,” she breathed, and she wasn’t entirely sure what it was she was asking for. More, more of everything. More skin, more contact, more pressure, just  _ more _ .

 

*

 

Jinx's mouth spoke for her.

"Good girl," she breathed, grazing her teeth just gently over the sensitive skin, and that was it - restraint was now over. Nobody could resist this sort of torment. She  _ needed  _ to hear another moan like that this instant, and she suddenly decided she'd been patient enough. 

Weeks of patience. 

Months.  _ Years.  _

No more patience. 

Just relief, now - moans - skin - the two of them at last.

She let one hand slowly descend Anthea's body, fingertips tumbling lightly across the skin of her stomach, lower and lower, finally idling across the top edge of her satin briefs. 

As she slipped her hand between Anthea's legs, gently stroking through the satin, Jinx's pulse began to race.  _ Fuck, you're warm... you're warm, you're here, you're mine -  _

Palming slowly, providing Anthea something to rub against, she took the chance of an arch against the sheets to slide her other hand around Anthea's back. Her fingers sought slyly across the back of her bra, ascertaining what might be done to start removing the garment. 

 

*

 

The praise sent an unexpected flood of heat through Anthea, bringing a pleased flush to her cheeks. She wanted to hear that again.

Another soft noise left her, legs spreading of their own volition as her hips canted forward, seeking pressure. She felt Jinx’s hand slide along her back, seeking the clasp of her bra.

She spared a moment of thought to be glad that, though expensive and complicated to look at, the bra itself was actually quite simple: a few hook and eye closures on the band and a hook at the back of her neck that would undo the straps that decorated the front of her chest.

_ You had better be quick about it, or I’m going to have to do it myself. _ That would mean that she would have to move away from the delicious pressure between her legs, and Anthea was  _ not _ going to be happy about that.

_ Perhaps a little help is in order. _

In a move that was half-calculated and half-instinctual, she arched her back further to give Jinx better access to the clasps. Happily, that  _ also _ arched her hips in a way that drew a gasp from her throat. Closing her eyes as her head fell back again, she set a small, rocking rhythm with her hips. Her breath came faster, carrying with it the faint sounds of pleasure.

 

*

 

Jinx's fingertips grazed across the clasp. 

_ Hook and eye. Perfect.  _ Using a careful pinch of the band and an easy, firm slide of her thumb, she separated the fastening with the grace and dexterity that only a well-practiced gay woman could ever achieve. The band gave gently. Lifting her mouth to Anthea's neck, she kissed there slowly as cover for an investigation of these pretty front straps. Her fingers then soothed over the back of Anthea's neck, and the hook slipped apart with ease. 

_ The joy of expensive lingerie,  _ Jinx thought, catching a shoulder strap with her teeth and sliding it down. _A_ _ n hour to get it on, seconds to get it off. _

She stroked Anthea's arms as she freed them of the bra. With it loose at last, she took hold of it with her mouth, slipped it down and tossed it gently to one side, then applied herself at once to Anthea's bare breasts. 

_ Fuck... fuck, perfect -  _

She'd meant just to tease with her mouth, but couldn't help it. Her hands slid up to cup them, stroke them, squeeze them, her lips and tongue restless as she kissed and licked and nuzzled at her pretty nipples, shivering.

_ Oh Jesus, fuck -  _

Jinx's hand eased its way down again, found the waistband of the satin knickers and coaxed beneath, two slow fingers slipping down into heat and wetness and  _ oh fuck, fucking yes,  _ soothing, stroking, finding her way to circle Anthea's clitoris with idle care.

"You're so wet," she whispered, turning her eyes upwards from Anthea's breasts towards her face. As she spoke, she mouthed slowly at one tight pink nipple, still spiralling with her fingertip. "Feel nice, princess? All wet and restless for me?"

 

*

 

The light kisses and brushes of teeth along her skin already had Anthea’s nerves singing. Every movement, every slight touch added to the heat that was already building in her. It was teasing and maddening and absolutely fucking divine. It took everything she had not to arch into every touch.

She was pretty sure  _ that _ plan wasn’t going to last long, but she had her dignity, dammit.

(For now.)

As Jinx’s mouth found her breasts, she gasped softly, high in her throat. Her back arched ever so slightly, pushing breast and nipple up for further attention.

Then her  _ fucking _ fingers - and Anthea’s mind went white for a brief second. A gasp - or was it a moan? - wrenched its way out of her throat.

_ Oh, dear God. _

_ Dear fucking God. _

She whined softly, lips parting as she tried to remember how to draw air into her lungs. “Y-yes,” she managed, tone embarrassingly breathy (was that a  _ catch _ in her voice?) and entirely unfeigned.

_ Oh God. _

She couldn’t remember the last time a single, simple touch had set her nerves alight so fast. She wanted - 

“More. Please.” Her voice,  _ still _ high and soft ( _ needy _ , her mind supplied). Her legs spread of their own volition. The movement pressed the fabric of her knickers tighter against Jinx’s fingers, though not enough to create the pressure she wanted.

Her chin tipped up, arms raised above her head to grasp at the sheets with need. She whined again, rocking her hips pleadingly. “ _ Please _ .”

 

*

 

_ A sight to remember.  _ Jinx bit down into her smile, pulling her lower lip slowly between her teeth, and continued the light and languid circling of her fingertip.

"'More', mm?" She shifted down, kissed Anthea's stomach, and with a deft and gentle ease slipped down the satin briefs, coaxing them over Anthea's thighs and off. They hit the floor as well. They were beautiful, it was true, and Jinx was hoping to become better acquainted with them some other time - right now, there was someone far more beautiful and important in need of her attention.

Idling back up the bed, she cosied herself between Anthea's immaculate thighs, leant down and kissed the slight swell of her mons, slipping her fingers back between her lover's legs.  _ Oh, sweetheart... all this wet, just for me?  _ She stroked her fingertips lightly up and down, searching, teasing, brushing from Anthea's clit to her opening in long and gentle sweeps that never quite pressed, never soothed. 

Lowering her mouth, with her darkened eyes fixed up the bed, she began to lap very slowly at Anthea's clit - soft, light, lazy little strokes.

Two fingers toyed around Anthea's opening, circling in time.

 

*

 

Anthea made a noise that was caught somewhere between a needy moan and a frustrated growl. On one hand, Jinx’s fingers and mouth felt wonderful, teasing her nerves to new heights of sensitivity until even the smallest movement could be felt.

On the other hand, it wasn’t  _ enough. _

“Beast,” she breathed, rocking her hips forward.  _ More, damn you. _ She looked down the length of her own body and met Jinx’s eyes, dark and heated and a little predatory.

All of a sudden, Anthea didn’t mind the teasing quite so much. The words she had on the tip of her tongue - ‘ _ I believe I was promised whatever I want’ _ \- vanished, replaced by the thought that she would take whatever this woman wanted to give her.

_ Dear Lord, what you do to me… _

 

*

 

Jinx smiled slowly, committing that facial expression to memory forevermore. It was even more beautiful, knowing that the night had just begun - that these were only the first intimate touches. Anthea in pleasure was so gorgeous it was almost unreal.

Looking into her eyes, Jinx understood with strange certainty that she was needed.

_ More to you than the beauty. More to you than the power. _

_ Starts tonight. _

Kissing Anthea's clitoris, sweeping it softly with her tongue, she slid two fingers slowly and deeply inside her.

An hour's drive away, a cry shook itself from Mycroft's throat. He felt his body tighten, squeezing around the slick press of fingers as they coaxed their way carefully into his body.

It had been years.

Greg was so gentle it made him want to sob. He was panting with longing and anxiety already, pink-cheeked and dark-eyed, his hair a mess from screwing his head back against the pillows. His pulse seemed to be doubling by the minute. The feeling took his breath - on his back, safe and warm in bed, the doors locked and the light falling beyond the window, lying here and whimpering as Greg gently relaxed him ready for sex. 

Before he slept, he'd know what it was like to come full to the brim of Greg's cock. He'd know what it was like to share one body. He'd know what it felt like to be slowly and gently stretched by his lover, over and over, and he'd know what Greg sounded like while it happened.

He'd never felt so fragile and so secure at once in his life.

Gazing up at Greg, his breath taut, Mycroft tightened one nervous hand where it rested on his lover's bicep. His other hand took hold of the undersheet beneath his back and twisted at it, squeezing the fabric to help in stifling his sounds. It was so hard not to vocalise. Greg's fingers were thick and gentle and slick, and they were stretching him for Greg's cock - dipping in and out of him slowly. It felt so good to be fucked. The realisation made Mycroft blush and drop his head back into the pillows, panting ever harder, his thighs now trembling with every careful in-stroke.

"F-Fuck..."

The whimper was mortifying - but he could only hold so much.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck... oh god, Greg, more,  _ please _ \- "

 

*

 

_ Gorgeous. Absolutely bloody gorgeous. _

Greg smiled down at the man beneath him, still working his fingers gently. He wanted - needed - this to be good for Mycroft, wanted to show him just how good it could be.

“S’okay, gorgeous,” he murmured, pressing in a little deeper. “Want to hear you. Want to hear what I’m doin’ to you. Want to hear all those beautiful noises.”

It all felt unreal - like a dream, maybe, or a hallucination. Him, Greg Lestrade, preparing Mycroft Holmes.

They were going to have sex. Soon. And even with two fingers buried deep, he still couldn’t quite believe it. He felt like the luckiest man on the planet to be here, watching Mycroft fall to pieces. He was too perfect, too beautiful, too  _ everything _ . It made Greg’s heart ache and sing all at once.

And he was here, under Greg. Trembling for him. Pleading for him.

It brought a proud smirk to his face. This was only the beginning.

Especially since he was fairly certain that if he stretched his fingers like  _ so _ and crooked them like  _ that _ -

He grinned a little as he felt the pads of his fingertips brush over Mycroft’s prostate.  _ Let’s see you keep quiet with that, beautiful. _

 

*

 

Mycroft's knuckles whitened around his fistful of sheets. He bit into his lip hard, his back arching up from the bed as hot, tight ripples of pleasure surged outwards from Greg's fingers.  _ Oh. Oh, holy Christ.  _ He'd forgotten the ease with which a lover could do this - forgotten the feeling of trembling and tightness and  _ too much, too good, too deep.  _

And it was Greg - Greg stroking him inside, Greg watching him, Greg enjoying the sight of him so vulnerable and aroused. 

As Greg padded at his prostate, Mycroft's thoughts rushed in a wild and unbroken stream.  _ Fuck, oh fuck. There. There, there. Fuck, please there. You feel good. Your fingers feel good there. Please. _

He didn't realise they were pouring from his mouth, too. 

 

*

 

The words caused a primal rush of possessiveness and desire to course through Greg’s veins. Something in him preened and stretched happily -  _ he _ did that.  _ He _ made those words and noises fall from his lover’s lips.

_ Mine. My gorgeous Mycroft. Mine. _

Not wanting to overstimulate Mycroft too soon, he alternated between gentle stretching and stroking over that perfect spot. The tip of his tongue was caught between his teeth as he tried to hold back his pleased grin.

It didn’t really work, nor did it do anything to dim the gleam in his eyes as he watched Mycroft writhe and arch in pleasure.

He bent lower and nosed along Mycroft’s beautiful neck up to his ear and hummed, “You ready for me? Or d’you want me to keep going, just like this?”

 

*

 

Even Greg's voice felt good. The sound brought Mycroft pleasure as if it were a touch across his skin, and it made him shiver just as deeply. Breathing hard, burying his fingers in the back of Greg's hair, he forced himself to focus on deciding what he wanted. The steady, gentle fucking of Greg's fingers made it rather difficult.

In the end, the thought of hearing Greg enjoy this too made the decision for him. He wanted to feel Greg sweat, feel their bodies move. He wanted to feel Greg's weight, feel his cock, feel him tremor. He wanted to whisper his name with Greg inside him.

His throat muscles tensed as he swallowed. His fingers tightened in Greg's hair for a moment, a flicker of nerves.

"I w-want you."  _ Oh god, how long has it been?  _ "P-Please - but slow - I - "

 

*

 

“Shhh, gorgeous, I know,” Greg soothed, kissing the flutter of Mycroft’s pulse, behind his ear, along his jaw. “S’okay. We’ll take it slow. I’m gonna take good care of you. Nothin’ to worry about. I’m right here.”

He pulled back far enough to meet Mycroft’s eyes, smiling gently. “Slow and gentle. Gonna make it perfect for you. Want that. You’ll tell me if you need anything to change, mm?” He leaned down and kissed him sweetly.

_ Get you to talk to me, beautiful. Wanna hear you. _

 

*

 

Mycroft's pupils widened the moment Greg looked into his eyes. He stroked his fingers through Greg's hair, still shaking finely as he listened to the reassuring words. His expression softened with helpless love and relief - and as they kissed, Mycroft drew breath for what felt like the first time in minutes.

_ So caring. _

_ Protective. _

As he thought it, a hot curl of pleasure tightened in Mycroft's groin.  _ My bodyguard. My Greg. My protector.  _ Kneeling between his open thighs, kissing him, relaxing him with those gentle fingers.  _ Oh god, take care of me. Take me slowly. _

Shivering, still brushing Greg's mouth with his own, Mycroft summoned the courage to speak. It brought heat across his face - but he liked Greg's voice. He knew it would relax him and make this easy.

"I-I'll tell you... I promise." Greg's hair was soft and gorgeous between his fingers; brushing it slowly was calming. "You're - v-very good to me. You're very kind."

 

*

 

Greg smiled gently and brushed a kiss against one cheek, then the other. Forehead, nose, lips. The perfect pattern.

“Keep you safe,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

He laid one last kiss on Mycroft’s lips and drew back, removing his fingers and reaching for the bottle of lube. He wanted to make sure that everything would be perfect - gentle and slow.

He took a moment to smooth his hands over Mycroft’s thighs, easing the tremble there. “S’gonna feel so good, gorgeous,” he murmured, smiling warmly. “I promise.”

 

*

 

The kiss to the lips caught Mycroft's breath. He responded to it, shaking gently, then let his fingers slip from Greg's hair. He gave a quiet swallow as he watched his lover retrieve the lubricant from by the bed.

_ God help me.  _

_ That smile. _

Mycroft was in no doubt that he would remember this night as long as he lived. Any discomfort would ebb; pleasure would come. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in, concentrating on the feel of Greg's fingertips stroking his thighs. It was immensely calming.

"I've - wanted this for a long time," he said softly, his eyes still closed. "A very long time..."

 

*

 

Greg smiled and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s knee. “Me too, gorgeous.”

He opened the bottle with a quiet click and squeezed a fair amount into his hand. The bottle closed and put back in its spot, he warmed the liquid between his palms before applying it to his cock.

He couldn’t quite stifle the groan that his own touch drew.  _ God, I want this. _

“Want you,” he murmured, voice carrying a rough edge. He shifted position, lined himself up with Mycroft’s prepared entrance. 

Their eyes met again. “You ready? Take it nice and slow?” he asked, eyes dark with arousal.

 

*

 

_ Oh Christ.  _ Mycroft took a moment to settle the slight spike of his pulse, breathing out as he looked into Greg's gaze.  _ Christ, this is happening.  _ He reached a little anxiously for his lover's chest, running his hands across it up to his shoulders, then to Greg's neck and finally his jaw. 

"Kiss me," he whispered - the nervousness in his eyes made it a plea. "W-While..."

Heat rose in his cheeks, and he shivered.

"I want to feel you on top of me."

 

*

 

Greg’s heart swelled with every word that came from Mycroft’s lips. “Of course, darlin’,” he murmured with an easy smile. “Of course.” 

He leaned down, shifting his stance to get more leverage. One hand landed beside Mycroft’s torso, the other stayed on his hip to keep everything steady. Their lips met as he started to push in, and both motions were languid and gentle.

_ Slow. Slow. Let him adjust. _

It had been a number of years since he had been where Mycroft was, but he still remembered what it was like and how incredibly unpleasant it could be when the person on top of you went too quickly.

He wanted no part of this to be unpleasant for his lover, especially when it felt fucking  _ amazing _ for him.

_ God, I hope this is good for you, gorgeous. You’re perfect. I want to make this good for you. _

 

*

 

_ Breathe -  _

_ Oh, god - breathe -  _

It was so hard not to tense, both from panic and pleasure. Mycroft's muscles tightened of their own volition, instinctively resisting the press against them. At the same time, longing for this moment rose the urge to squeeze - and fighting it wasn't easy.

He concentrated instead on the stroke of Greg's lips, gentle and slow, and the feel of his fingers through Greg's hair.

_ Christ, breathe... _

In, slowly.

Out, slowly. 

Discomfort began to bite; Mycroft's face tightened. His breath hitched and his fingers tensed in Greg's hair, a quiet shake passing through his body. Had this always felt like being heaved apart at the seams? He couldn't remember. The flicker of distress clenched his muscles, tight.

"G-Greg - " His lover's name left him as a whimper.  _ "Greg - " _

 

*

 

Greg could feel the resistance and paused in his slide forward, breathing through the pressure. “Shh, shh,” he hushed, kissing along Mycroft’s jaw. “S’okay, beautiful. We’ll wait right here ‘til you’re ready - unless it’s too much? That’s okay, too, we can stop - whatever you need.”

He placed a series of gentle kisses over the extremely sensitive column of Mycroft’s neck, hoping to get him to concentrate on that instead. Meanwhile, the hand on Mycroft’s hip rubbed soothingly, tracing gentle circles over his hipbone.

“You just focus on me, sweet. ‘M here. Right here.”

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart was pounding in his throat.  _ Oh god. Protective. Tender. Caring.  _ He held onto his lover tightly as he breathed slow, his arms around Greg's torso, hands trembling as they grasped his back. He let his attention draw to those feather-soft kisses along his neck - little flutters of pleasure, light and soothing, and Greg's voice was like a balm across a burn. It was everything Mycroft needed. He sank into it, breathing; he tried to ignore the deep ache, knowing it would ease if given time.

_ As if I'm a virgin again.  _

_ Dear god. _

Swallowing, emitting a soft moan at the kisses, Mycroft shifted his grip on Greg's back and tried to focus on it - the feeling of his lover in his arms, warm bare skin, Greg's muscular body; the pleasure to come.

"Don't stop," he whispered. His voice was softer than he'd ever sounded with Greg; this was a place of vulnerability, and it wasn't easy. Mycroft's heart tightened as he realised he'd expected never to feel this again. His arms tightened, too. "I'm - a l-little out of practice..."

He shivered, offering more of his neck for those wonderful kisses.

"Oh god, don't stop... I  _ want  _ you - I want - f-fuck..."  _ Breathe, breathe.  _ Testing a tentative press downwards, Mycroft found his muscles settling a little around the ache. He exhaled with a soft rush of relief, moaned and whispered, "I-I'm fine - please - more - "

 

*

 

Greg’s heart swelled at the sound of Mycroft’s voice, so soft and honest.  _ Open. Vulnerable. Trusting. _

_ God, you’re perfect. _

_ I’ll keep you safe, darlin’. Never let anything happen to you. _

He hummed softly, never stopping the rain of gentle kisses over Mycroft’s neck, focused on and around the frantic pounding of his pulse. “Okay, gorgeous, okay,” he soothed. “I won’t stop. We’ll take it slow. I’ll give you what you need.”

His hand tightened again on the freckled hip, steadying them both as he resumed his slow, steady press in.

“Breathe, beautiful,” he murmured softly, kissing a trail up to his lover’s mouth. “Remember to breathe.” He kissed him sweetly, almost chastely. Just a gentle touch to remind the man he was here.

 

*

 

"Oh, god..." Mycroft whispered, shivered and closed his eyes. 

He responded to the gentle kiss as he inhaled, copying by instinct the rhythm of Greg's breath. Focusing on it helped. His fingers began to stroke Greg's back, a purposeful loosening of his grip. Gentle kissing, careful stroking, slow breathing; the realisation overwhelmed Mycroft in a rush. This was happening. This was as close as two humans could be. 

His thighs squeezed Greg gently on either side, feeling him there - his body. Even the pain was comforting in its way.  _ Greg,  _ pressing slowly into his body, finding their way together.  _ This is the first time. The first time he takes me this way. _

When it felt like Greg couldn't possibly fill him any further, and the slow push ended, Mycroft exhaled with relief against his lover's neck.  _ In me.  _ There would be no more discomfort than this; this was the most it would be. His hands moved down Greg's back, shaking, and laid anxiously at the base of his spine. They rested one on top of the other, just feeling.  _ Deep. Full of you. _

Breathing with purpose, Mycroft looked up into his lover's eyes.

"Oh, god," he whispered again, shocked and desperate. He looked almost lost. Colour burned in his cheeks, and his eyes shone as he gazed up from the pillow. "Oh - Greg... oh, my god..."

 

*

 

“God, you’re beautiful,” Greg whispered, almost without realizing it. His hand drew one last soothing circle on Mycroft’s hipbone before coming up to cup his cheek.

He smiled as he brushed his thumb over the smooth arch of Mycroft’s cheekbone. “Hi, gorgeous,” he murmured, eyes gentle and full of affection and arousal. “You feelin’ okay? I’m here. Right here.”

The hands on his back were soothing, grounding, for which he was grateful. The heat and pressure and sheer sensation of being buried in his lover’s body were nearly overwhelming, and having that one point to focus on was helping Greg’s concentration immensely.

He kept his breathing purposefully slow, both to help control himself and to give Mycroft a pattern to follow. They were both on the edge of being overwhelmed, and Greg wanted to make sure they both came through it pleased and happy.

He knew, in the back of his mind, that they would come out of it changed. But that wasn’t such a bad thing.

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart heaved against his ribs; his eyes filled with stars. The soft talking was so affecting that it almost took his breath. Greg was everything he needed in this moment - everything. The intimacy of it felt like nothing in his life ever had.

"I'm alright," he whispered, his voice shaking. Relief softened his face. Hearing himself say it made him believe it. "I'm fine... I-I feel... i-it's easing..." 

He reached one hand for Greg's cheek, too - stroking him, brushing gently back into his hair. 

Greg's eyes were impossibly beautiful.

With another slow in-breath, longing flickered over Mycroft's expression. He bit his lip as he searched his lover's face.

"Move in me," he whispered. "Please." The words squeezed his throat. "I want to come like this... feeling you. F-Feeling you fill me."

 

*

 

The words, combined with the look in Mycroft’s eyes, made Greg’s breath catch in his chest. He felt himself starting to pant a little with desire and need. 

_ Oh fuck. Fuck, yes. _

“Okay, beautiful,” he murmured, kissing him sweetly, struggling to get his breathing back under control. He began to move again, agonizingly slowly. He knew Mycroft would need time to adjust, and then he could speed up a bit. However fast felt good.

Something about Mycroft, their intimacy, everything, made Greg want to shower the man in praise and affection, tell him anything and everything he needed to hear. He bent down, nosing the soft skin by Mycroft’s ear. “God, I adore you,” he hummed. “You’re perfect, sweetheart, absolutely perfect. You’re amazing. You feel so good. My handsome, perfect man.”

 

*

 

_ Oh, god. You - you want me -  _

_ You want to feel -  _

That look. 

Desire. Need. 

_ 'You feel so good.'  _

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat. Shaking he pushed his fingers through Greg's hair, biting down into his lip, feeling a swoop low in his stomach as his lover began to move slowly inside him.  _ Oh, god. Sex. Oh god.  _

_ Oh god. _

"Oh god," he whimpered, and his thighs tightened - he just wanted to feel Greg there, on top of him, easing carefully in these first gentle movements. His left hand still rested at the small of Greg's back. His fingers trembled, palm pushing gently, wanting. "Oh god. Oh, god - you're big - "

_ Oh god, yes -  _

_ Oh, fuck -  _

Firm, thick - hard - easing through him slowly, the slick of lubricant, the discomfort now lowing to a comfortable and almost restless ache, and the sound of Greg's breath made Mycroft's back arch a little from the bed.

"Oh, fuck - Greg - m-more - "

 

*

 

Greg let out a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a growl, increasing his pace steadily. It was still somewhat slow, but firmer than before; each stroke was long and smooth, and he adjusted his angle until he found one that drew more of those lovely noises from Mycroft’s throat.

“Feel good, mm?” he purred, kissing and nipping along Mycroft’s throat and collarbone. “Full of me? Gonna make you feel so good, darlin’. Make you feel spectacular.”

 

*

 

The purposeful, steady strokes had edged Mycroft's breath into slow panting. The physical sensation was  _ intense; _ Greg's voice, his kisses, his comforting weight, all softened the feeling into sex. It was growing easier and easier to relax. Tiny details sparked and seared in Mycroft's blood - Greg's hair scrunched between his fingers; the rub of the sheets against his back; the steadying curl of Greg's hand at his hip.

Shocked, shivering, he made a noise of nervous enjoyment in Greg's ear.

"F-Full of you..." 

_ Oh god, good - feels good - oh god - there...  _

"A-Are you alright?" 

 

*

 

Greg made a low, rumbling chuckle of a noise. He nosed Mycroft’s chin affectionately. “More than alright, darlin’,” he assured him with a smile. “Bloody amazing is more like it.”

He took the chance of speeding up just a little more, making his pace steady - in and out, no pause in between. He wanted Mycroft to feel good - amazing - wonderful - more. He deserved that; deserved everything Greg could ever hope to give him.

Greg traced idle patterns in the freckles on Mycroft’s shoulders with his nose, humming low in his chest. This felt like Heaven, here with his lover beneath him. His perfect, creamy, freckled skin; his beautiful blue-grey eyes shining with pleasure; his voice, soft with need and trust. 

It was better than Greg could have ever imagined.

 

*

 

As Greg began to move with more purpose, Mycroft's grip tightened in his hair. A tremor passed through the hand on Greg's back. The feeling flushed across Mycroft's face, visible pleasure and relief softening his features as he breathed.

"Oh, god..." He bit down into his lip, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, overwhelmed. "Oh,  _ Christ  _ \- Greg - "

He'd forgotten the force of the relief - the building realisation that this was  _ good,  _ better than good, the satisfaction and the stretch and the urge to cry out. Mycroft shuddered, dropped his head back into the pillow and let out a moan, too overcome to hold it. The sound was deep and desperate; it ached from his lips.

"Ohh - Greg -  _ Greg, god - fuck - " _

He arched, digging his fingers into Greg's back.

"Fuck,  _ fuck - " _

 

*

 

The prickles of sensation from the hand in his hair and the nails in his back, the moan, Mycroft’s  _ voice _ ; it all drove Greg absolutely crazy. He groaned into the junction of shoulder and neck, inhaling the heady scent of his lover’s skin and the last vestiges of his cologne.

“Fuck,” he muttered, tightening his grip on his hipbone. “Fuck, babe, yeah, I wanna hear you --” He brought his head up and kissed Mycroft deeply, heatedly. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “Go ahead and be as loud as you want, darlin', ain’t nobody here but the two of us. Wanna hear you. Love hearing you. Gorgeous man.”

He nuzzled Mycroft’s cheek, desperate for as much skin to skin contact as he could get. “Hold on tight to me,” he breathed. “I won’t break. Feels good - love feeling you on me, around me. Give it all to me. I want it.”

 

*

 

_ He likes loud. _

_ He likes to hear. _

Mycroft had never had loud sex. He'd never had a vocal lover - he'd never had someone want to talk, want to tell him things, want to hear his voice in return. It was wildly intimate. Something about Greg longing to hear what this was doing to Mycroft made his pulse soar. 

Years of silent and gentle nocturnal masturbation were difficult to unlearn - but the slow rhythm of their sex, Greg's breathed encouragement and the feeling of tightening pressure in Mycroft's groin were enough to make him brave. As their cheeks nuzzled, he shook to the soul and curled his fingers in Greg's hair, keeping him close for a moment. 

It was easier to whimper this - a secret, confessed in his lover's ear. 

"You f-feel good... Greg, you're - oh god, warm - oh god, _there..."_ Mycroft's voice squeezed into a whimper as Greg's steady tending of his prostate began to make him feel like a bowstring drawn tighter and tighter, all his blood thickening, his skin flushing hot, his muscles shaking. "Oh fuck, you're big... fuck... fuck, you _feel good - "_

It was easy: holding tight to his lover's back, burying his face in Greg's neck and letting his sounds free instead of stifling them. He'd never allowed someone to hear him like this before. 

He wanted Greg to hear.

Mycroft's soft cries grew louder and more frantic as their rhythm built. The house was empty; he wanted to fill it with the sound of what Greg was doing to him. He let the pleasure overflow from his lips as noise, moaning and pleading and panting, begging Greg to make him come, begging Greg to never stop.

 

*

Greg had quite a large amount of self-control when the situation warranted it, but hearing the pleasure build in Mycroft’s voice, hearing the volume climb as he let himself go, let himself feel and be - not just hearing it, but  _ feeling  _ it, feeling the words vibrate across his skin, vibrate through into his soul...

Well, how was a man supposed to keep calm and collected in the face of  _ that _ ?

He groaned tightly and picked up his pace again - nothing unbearable, nothing overwhelming, but it was more than it had been. More friction, more sensation, just  _ more _ . He could feel his lover tightening around him (hot, tight,  _ perfect _ ), heard those desperate pleas, and wanted to fulfill every single one of them.

He wanted to push them towards that shining edge together, and from the sounds growing near his ear, he was more than successful.

“Fuck,” he panted, kissing and nipping oh-so-lightly at Mycroft’s neck. “Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ perfect - feel so damn good -  _ fuck _ …”

The man beneath him was so damn  _ responsive _ ; it made Greg want to map his body out, find every single spot that made him squirm and writhe and cry out. He wanted to discover every inch of him, commit it to memory and learn it by heart.

But not just now. Now, he was focused on keeping his thrusts as steady as he could, braced between Mycroft and the bed. “Touch yourself for me?” he asked in a murmur. “Want to see you come like this - wanna see you fall apart underneath me, feel you come around my cock.” He trailed his lips along the delicate shell of the man’s ear. “Come for me, gorgeous,” he whispered, breath hot and ragged. “Want it. Want to feel you come all over us.”

 

*

 

_ 'Touch yourself for me.' _

Mycroft's blood ignited with instant heat. He moaned as the surge of warmth left him blushing, fragile and aroused at once, his body trembling with just the thought of that - lying here, stroking himself to come for his lover's gaze. Greg's soft encouragement eased his shaking; he was too excited to resist.

Anxiously, he lowered his hand between their bodies. 

His cock was hot to the touch, urgently leaking pre-come across his stomach. Shuddering, whimpering, Mycroft wrapped himself in a hand and gently spread his own slickness along his aching erection, enjoying the sensation from the first stroke. His body tightened around Greg. Desperately he began to work his cock - tight, long pulls in time with their sex, timing on each deeper thrust to rock up and push through his fist. In a few cycles, the movement became easy and smooth and flowing - and Mycroft's whole face convulsed with pleasure.

_ 'Want it. Want to feel you come all over us.' _

In less than a minute, Mycroft's breath began to thicken. His moans took on a single shape: Greg's name, over and over. He felt debauched. He felt beautifully, perfectly, prettily filthy, panting with pleasure as his lover fucked him, stroking himself in just the rhythm he liked, writhing on Greg's cock.

This was heaven. It was perfect. It felt like nothing in his life ever had.

As he felt the pressure in his groin strain past the point of no return, Mycroft locked his legs around Greg's hips and began to whimper, sharp and high and desperate sounds.

"Close - c-close - close,  _ close - " _

 

*

 

Greg pushed himself up with the hand braced on the bed in order to get a better view. And what a view it was - Mycroft’s cock pushing in and out of his fist, his face twisted in ecstasy, the slick of his precome covering his cock and his long fingers. He looked thoroughly wrecked, and Greg was damn proud of it.

Absolutely everything about this was perfect. The tightness of Mycroft’s body, the broken whimpers and gasps of Greg’s name, the pressure of legs around his hips; it was all divine.

The cry of “close” was music to Greg’s ears. He panted softly, tightening his grip on Mycroft’s hip, hardly daring to blink as he watched his lover approach that shining edge.

“Come for me, my pretty posh,” he said, voice rough, eyes dark with lust and a proud smirk on his lips. “Wanna feel you come on my cock, watch you make a mess of yourself. Wanna hear you cry my name as you come.”

 

*

 

_ Watching - watching me, panting - wanting me -  _

_ Oh, god, fucking me -  _

_ Fucking me - wanting me to -  _

And this was the first time, the first of many times. This was the first time they felt this together. This was the first time Greg filled him with pleasure so sharp and hot and perfect that he couldn't cope, the first time he felt those beautiful black eyes enjoying the sight of him undone like this, the first time Greg watched this, first time he felt it breaking, breaking,  _ breaking _ \-  _ coming _ \- 

_ "Greg...!" _

It was a howl. Mycroft knew it; he didn't care. All he could feel was pleasure shattering his senses apart, clenching his every muscle tight, pounding through him as he panted and threw back his head and begged. His thighs dragged tight around Greg's hips.  _ Hold still. There. Hold there. Please.  _ He could feel himself squeezing around Greg's cock, coming on it, and that deeper ache of pleasure drove Mycroft's cries louder, struggling to stay still as it wrecked its way through him. 

Long spurts streamed from his cock across his stomach. 

 

*

 

Greg held perfectly still, holding on tight to his own pleasure as he watched Mycroft’s orgasm shatter him. 

He reveled in the sight of it, the sound of it - cries reverberating through the room (probably echoing through the house), shudders of ecstasy wracking him, even the shine of the lamplight over the mess the man had made.

He watched it all, drank it down with wide, dark eyes, committing every single piece to memory. This was the first of many times, he knew, but this moment here he wanted seared in his mind for years to come.

As the last shivers ran over Mycroft’s pale skin and his muscles unwound, Greg felt the pleasure he had held back in himself for so long surge back with new urgency. It sent his pulse pounding through him like a drum, beating in his ears until he thought he might faint from it.

Carefully, oh so very carefully, Greg pulled out of his exhausted lover and gripped himself. Eyes still locked on Mycroft, he began stroking himself hard and fast. Pressure and heat were already building; he knew it wouldn’t be long before his own spend mixed with what already lay on Mycroft’s abdomen.

Especially once blue-grey eyes fluttered open to look at him. The meeting of their gazes stole Greg’s breath away.

 

*

 

A soft, exhausted moan left Mycroft's mouth as Greg eased from his body. The intimacy of the sensation was overwhelming. He stirred, inhaling deeply, and let his legs ease with care from around Greg's hips. They trembled as he lowered them; his entire body ached.

Before he could rest, there was something he needed.

Meeting Greg's gaze, he felt his heart grow to twice its size. A small, dazed smile lifted the corner of his mouth. Sated, he lifted his fingertips to his lover's chest - the muscles he adored; the dark softness of Greg's hair; his beautiful stomach, his hipbones, where Mycroft curled his hands gently and stroked with his thumbs.

"Come for me," he whispered, his eyes still holding Greg's. Contentment and affection softened his entire face; he felt more at peace than he had in a decade. "Come, Greg... I want to see..." 

A warm and peaceful glitter filled his gaze. 

"Make a mess of me," he murmured, and stretched. "Your pretty posh."

 

*

 

Greg’s heart immediately leaped into his throat. He swallowed hard and stroked himself in sharp pulls. 

_ ‘Come for me. I want to see.’ _

_ Fuck. He wants me. Wants me to - _

_ ‘Make a mess of me.’ _

_ Fuck, yes. Yes. _

_ ‘Your pretty posh.’ _

_ Yes. Mine. _

He groaned as pleasure surged through him. His other hand came to rest over Mycroft’s where it sat on his hip, curling over it to focus the intimacy of the touch.

One pull, two, and he was there, crying out pieces of Mycroft’s name as he came. Their hands held tight, grounding him.

Greg was grateful. The sheer intensity of the orgasm made him feel as though he would fly into a million pieces, but the hands on his hips and the steel blue gaze holding his kept him together, made him whole.

 

*

 

Mycroft bit down into his lip, watching his lover's release with a slow shudder.  _ God help me... if you weren't beautiful enough before...  _ Greg was sublime in his ecstasy. He was perfect. Holding his lover carefully, stroking his thumbs in the same slow and easy circles, Mycroft watched and waited in contentment for the strongest of the sensations to pass, murmuring soft encouragement.

"Mmhm... I'm here, darling... I'm just here... let it come, Greg..."

The spatter of milk-white fluid across his abdomen made him smile; something in his soul took a deep, satisfied breath.  _ Yes... yes, that's it...  _

 

*

 

One final shudder wracked Greg’s body, one final gasp of “Myc…”, one final stroke of his cock, and pleasure eased back to give way to a deep, satisfied exhaustion.

He smiled lazily and moved to lay down beside Mycroft, draping an arm over his torso easily. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, eyes flicking over his face, full of warmth and affection. “How’d I get so lucky, huh?”

 

*

 

Mycroft's face opened into a helpless grin as Greg settled down beside him and laid an arm without hesitation across the mess.  _ Well, if we'll already have to shower... why not?  _ He gazed up into Greg's face, his grey eyes shining with happiness, and brought their hands gently together.

_ God almighty... we just... _

He could still feel it; the ache of his lover, deep. He felt...  _ fucked. _ It was glorious.

"Rather admiring my own fortunes, as it happens..." Mycroft wasn't surprised to hear his voice leave his lips slightly hoarse. He'd not bothered to stay quiet. His throat was bordering on sore. "Dear god, Greg... I can still feel you..."

 

*

 

Greg gave him a bright, broad grin and nuzzled his cheek. “Good. I like hearing that,” he said proudly, placing a soft kiss where his nose had just been. “Gonna be feeling me for a day or two, sweetheart, if I’ve done my job right.”

It had been far too long since he had lain with someone this way; happy and glad to be messy, simply enjoying each other’s company and soaking in the intimacy of the moment. Even then, he couldn’t remember how long it had been since his heart had felt this full.

Maybe never. Everything with Mycroft was special, was unique; it wouldn’t surprise Greg in the slightest if this, too, was something that he had only ever felt with this man.

Part of him wanted to say it - those three little words. Tell Mycroft exactly what he meant, how Greg felt about him.

But he couldn’t. Even the glimmer of the thought made his heart clench, so instead he pressed a warm kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder and murmured, “I adore you. You’re perfect. Absolutely bloody perfect.”

 

*

 

Shivering, Mycroft let his head fall back into the pillows. The utter joy now coursing through his veins felt like light shining from beneath his skin. He felt bloody luminous. This moment was undreamable; he wanted to remain in it for the rest of his life.

"Weeks," he murmured, and looked up into Greg's eyes. He lifted a hand; his fingertips brushed Greg's cheek. "Months. All...  _ entirely _ worth it."

He bit gently at his own lower lip, taking a moment just to impress this sight upon his memory forever - Greg, not even a minute post-coital, lying in his bed in the lamplight.

Mycroft's heart strained inside his chest.

"You... must stay, Greg."

He searched his lover's eyes.

"I'll treat you well. Always."

 

*

 

Greg gave him a gentle, easy smile. The words filled his heart with warmth, and he transferred that warmth back to Mycroft via a soft, sweet kiss.

“Of course, darlin’,” he murmured, pulling back just far enough to make the words audible. “Of course I’ll stay.” He smiled and kissed him again, chaste. “You’re stuck with me, now. You’ll never be rid of me.”

 

*

 

"Dear god, I hope so..." Mycroft leant up into the kiss, shivering slowly as their lips sealed. His fingers brushed back through Greg's hair. They needed a shower rather desperately - a long, hot shower, and then to fall asleep together for the night. Nothing more blissful could exist in the world. 

As their lips parted again, Mycroft gave a low and soft hum - the sound was rather throaty. It caught at the back of his mouth, dry.

"Not sure I've been that vocal in all my life," he murmured, his eyes glittering. "Thank heavens we have no neighbours."

 

*

 

Greg chuckled softly and kissed his cheek. “I’m very grateful,” he said, eyes dancing. “Listening to you was one of the most erotic things that’s ever happened to me.”

He drew back and wrinkled his nose at the sticky mess they had become. “Shower for us both, tea for you - you’ll be glad for it when tomorrow, you don’t sound like you’ve been having gravel rather than granola for breakfast.”

He gave Mycroft a sly smile. “Shower first, together? Then I’ll make some tea while you get dressed for bed.”

 

*

 

Mycroft groaned softly.

"Wonderful man," he murmured, stroking back Greg's hair. He leant up to kiss the tip of his lover's chin. "Yes, please... that sounds perfect."

 


	46. Pillowcase

As soon as they stepped into the shower, Mycroft found himself gathered into Greg's arms. 

The hot water felt divine, raining gently on his back; his lover's hands glided through the soap on his skin. The sensation was so soothing it felt like a softer, second climax, a rush of calm and comfort that breathed itself from his lips as a moan. As they cradled each other under the spray, they came to rest against the shower wall - kissing, touching, quietly exploring each other's bodies. Though he'd come, Mycroft still wanted to make love. He wanted Greg's hands everywhere on his skin, washing him, stroking him. He wanted to rest in each other. Sharing this gentle closeness, cleaning each other after sex, felt almost as intimate as having Greg inside him. Mycroft already knew he was going to sleep very deeply. He'd be sore in the morning, most certainly - but his lover's comfort was only a soft request away.

He washed Greg's hair, washed his body, then knelt and washed his feet.  _ My Greg. My safety.  _ Out of the shower, he took a fresh towel from the heated rail and dried Greg with care, standing together in the last of the steam and kissing. 

Though the house was empty, it still felt rather wicked to take Greg's hand and lead him nude along the hall back to his bedroom. Mycroft hadn't been naked outside of a closed door in many years. 

He glanced back at Greg, almost shyly, and smiled as he tugged him back towards the bed. 

 

*

 

“Alright, gorgeous, you get settled,” Greg said, kissing Mycroft’s cheek easily. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with a nice cuppa for you, and then it’s bedtime for us old men.” He grinned cheekily and dashed out of the room before he could be scolded (or swatted) for calling his lover old.

He stopped by his own room to grab a pair of sleep pants, since the idea of boiling water in the nude didn’t much appeal to him. At least not without Mycroft there to enjoy the view.

Once clothed, he headed down to the kitchen, whistling softly. The slight ache of really good sex was already settling into his muscles, and he relished it. They’d both be feeling this come the morning; hopefully tea would take the edge off enough that it would be pleasantly achey rather than hard to move.

He pulled down two mugs and set the kettle on the stove to boil, yawning softly and scruffing his hand through his still-damp hair.

 

*

 

_ Utter rogue.  _ Mycroft watched his lover go with a small smirk, and in Greg's absence set about finding sleepwear. The two of them needed their rest. It would be more comfortable sleeping in Greg's arms with some kind of fabric between them - and there'd also be less chance of him preying on Greg during the night.

Full pyjamas seemed excessive. Mycroft contemplated his nightwear drawer for some time, eventually settling on light-grey cotton bottoms, leaving the shirt where it was. As he pulled them on, he took a moment to fret over his reflection in the mirror - was he a little too mature to be sleeping without a shirt? It seemed the sort of thing that teenagers and the young got up to.

He wanted to feel Greg's skin, though.

Supposing that his lover had the keenest of appreciation for his body, Mycroft allowed himself a quiet smile in the mirror. The man looking back at him was a different person to the one he'd seen there for years - a person far happier, far healthier, more at peace.

Brushing back an errant coil of damp red hair, he inhaled the sensation of happiness deeper into his heart.

_ Who knew this feeling could be mine? _

The door opened. Mycroft smiled, lowering his gaze in the mirror.

"I hope you don't mind," he said softly to Greg, and turned his head. "It's a little warm for - "

It wasn't Greg.

The man standing in his doorway was taller, leaner - wiry almost - blonde with heavy eyebrows and hollow cheeks. He wore close-fitting clothing in deep greys and browns. He'd walked into the room as if he was quite meant to be here - and as Mycroft looked at the stranger, astonished, not a flicker of apology crossed the unfamiliar face.

"Who are  _ you?" _ Mycroft demanded.

The man answered in Slovenian, drew a blade from inside his coat, and proceeded forwards.

 

*

 

Greg hummed softly to himself, puttering about as he waited for the kettle to boil. He went through the pantry, contemplating the biscuits. Biscuits after sex was always a treat, and he was pretty sure he could convince Mycroft to ignore the crumbs.

While he was in there, he snagged the honey - antibacterial and a little sweet, it would be a perfect addition to the tea and a very good end to the evening.

 

*

 

Before Mycroft's head had fully realised what was happening, his hand seized an ancient Egyptian bronze of the goddess Bastet and flung it with all his might. It cracked against the man's jaw and was knocked sideways onto the bed, bouncing onto the mattress without a sound. It bought Mycroft all of a second's time to think. 

In horror he realised he was unarmed, alone and cornered by the bed. There was no escape route.

He would have to make one.

Before the man could recover from the blow to his jaw, Mycroft seized the nearest thing to hand and flew towards him. He only realised it was a metal photograph frame as he brought it down on the man's head, smashing the glass inside against his skull and producing a stifled shout of pain. As the intruder reeled,  not expecting a counter-attack, Mycroft lunged for the wrist bearing the knife.

 

*

 

Greg paused for a moment, head cocked to the side. He had thought he had heard - 

But no. He shook his head at himself and smiled a bit. “Silly,” he murmured.

The kettle began to whistle shrilly and he took it off, pouring hot water into the pot to begin brewing the tea. Even post-coital, he was pretty sure he couldn't get away with serving Mycroft bagged tea. Loose leaf only took a few minutes extra to prepare, after all, and he figured the gesture would be appreciated.

He went back to the pantry and snagged a pack of biscuits at random, deciding that  _ any _ biscuits were good biscuits.

 

*

 

Mycroft almost had it. One more twist of the wrist - getting hold of the knife without catching the blade was next to impossible while grappling the man in a panic. There were shards of glass in the man's hair, on his clothes and on the ground. Deciding to risk injury to his hands, Mycroft grabbed directly for the knife and tried to twist it free.

It was his mistake. 

Stretching, he opened his body to a strike. It came as a blow from the knee, directly upwards into his groin.

Agony and nausea roiled through his senses at once. The sensation was too visceral even to cry out; his throat simply sealed, wrenched tight by pain, and as he slumped he felt his thoughts blitz into several seconds of nothing. 

When they returned, the man was hauling him backwards across the bed. 

In a lurch of terror, the memory of a photograph filled Mycroft's mind - Kovácic, dead, throat-cut and face still frozen in shock, thrown back across his bed, hands locked around a wound that would never close.

_ No -  _

_ No - not now -  _

As Mycroft's back hit the bed, he threw both hands up.

The blade bit into them, digging through his palms. Agony ripped through his skin. Mycroft clung onto the sharp edge of the blade, shaking, trying to force it backwards from his throat, as the assassin pinned him down and tried to force it closer.

Mycroft's vision reeled. Pain and panic were whiting out his mind. This was it. This was where he would be found. This was what Greg would discover when he came back upstairs.

Greg.

_ Greg. _

Mycroft screwed his eyes shut, realising his feet were still in contact with the floor. The knife was twisting its way through his hands. He couldn't fight much longer.

Lifting his right foot, he banged his heel hard against the ground - over and over and over, hard enough to sent yet more pain splintering through his ankle. The sound echoed urgently through the floor.

 

*

 

Greg stopped what he was doing - that banging - something was wrong. 

Mycroft was in trouble.

His heart shot into his throat, but his head remained clear. This was his job - his body knew what to do.

He grabbed a chef's knife from the magnetic strip on the wall and ran upstairs as fast as his feet would carry him. He took the stairs two - three? - at a time.

The door was still open. He flew through it. His eyes took everything in in a moment - Mycroft trying to hold back the knife, the blood, the man holding the knife.

Well, first things first.

“ _ Oi!”  _ he shouted, lunging sideways at the man to knock him off balance and away from Mycroft.

Nothing was going through his mind - he felt removed, like always. Almost cold, analytical, assessing calmly while his body acted. 

Letting the panic and fury take hold of him would only be detrimental at this point, Greg knew.

 

*

 

Thrown aside, the assassin stumbled back against the wall beside the bed, righting himself almost instantly. The knife flashed in his grip. He screamed something in Slovenian, flew at Greg and without hesitation aimed the blade directly towards Greg's neck.

 

*

 

Greg dodged aside fluidly, expression hard. He felt the blade nick his shoulder as it went past, but it didn't even register. His own knife was held in such a way that it couldn't be turned against him. Happily, it also gave him much more leverage.

Enough to stab through skin and muscle, straight into the assassin’s heart.

Even as the man gasped in shock and blood began to bubble from his mouth, Greg pulled the blade out and severed his carotid artery with an icy efficiency.

The man collapsed, and he waited only long enough to be sure the intruder would breathe his last breaths there on the floor and toss the knife aside before turning to Mycroft.

His expression softened immediately and he helped him sit up, grabbing a pillow. “Here,” he said gently, shaking the pillowcase off and bundling it against Mycroft’s hands. “Hold this, hold it tight, and keep your hands up under your chin. You'll be alright.” His tone was calm and even, as though Myc had just gotten a small papercut.

 

*

 

Mycroft couldn't think. He wasn't aware of his heart beating any longer. There was blood everywhere, and it was his. The look he gave Greg was of utter shock and distress, taking the pillow mutely in his lacerated hands. 

It hurt to close them. It hurt to grip - but he obeyed. His eyes didn't leave Greg's face. They were wide with panic, overwhelmed by fright.

He didn't make a sound. He simply stared. 

 

*

 

“There you go, gorgeous,” Greg said soothingly. “Come on, up you get.” He helped Mycroft stand, hands on his elbows. “Can you walk down to the car, or shall I carry you? You just lean on me if you don't want to walk, okay? Don't have to say a word.”

Shock would make it hard for Mycroft to walk, he knew, but sometimes it helped to do something under one’s own power.

 

*

 

As soon as he got to his feet, Mycroft swayed forwards against Greg. Part of it was instinct; part of it was a request - part of it was the sudden rush of blood from his head. He clung onto the pillowcase as he paled, leaning into Greg's chest. 

Spotting the man now dead of an open heart wound on his floor, his eyes shuttered in distress.

 

*

 

“Sh, sh,” Greg soothed. “Close your eyes, there you go. Gonna scoop you up, okay? One, two, three-"

He picked Mycroft up bridal style, so reminiscent of that night so long ago, settling him easily.

“You just hold tight to that, gorgeous,” he said, stepping around the corpse and heading for the stairs. “I've got you, beautiful. Not a thing to worry about. I'm right here.”

They headed downstairs, through the kitchen and into the garage. He deposited Mycroft gently into the passenger seat and buckled him in. He snagged the keys and the gate opener, and they were off like a flash, heading for the hospital. 

Greg flicked his eyes toward Mycroft as often as he dared, considering the rate of speed they were going.

 

*

 

Mycroft made no noise at all as he was carried. He didn't move as he was placed in the passenger seat, silent, watching Greg fasten the seatbelt across his bare chest. He simply breathed and stared, locked into shock. 

As they drove, the colour ebbed more and more from his face. 

A few minutes from the hospital, his breathing began to grow rapid. He could feel sweat breaking out across his forehead. He held onto the pillowcase tighter, his eyes closing with pain, and tried to fight off the shock. It was crippling through his system. 

By the time they'd pulled to a stop outside the hospital, he couldn't move his head without wanting to vomit. Every lurch of the car left him reeling, and sent his pulse beating faster and weaker.

He was as limp as a ragdoll as Greg lifted him from the car. 

Consciousness furled through his mind like smoke. He heard the door slam, felt the sharp cold of the night air on his skin and the motion of Greg walking with him, and he realised his grip was slipping from the pillowcase. He couldn't cope with the pain any longer. He couldn't keep his grip. His arms lolled loose from beneath his chin, and he let them fall. 

Bright lights.

Greg's voice, raised. Insistent. He caught a phrase - "You can't keep me out, I'm his partner!" - but his brain was too overwhelmed to process it.

Greg's arms were pulled from around him. Other hands took hold of him, lifting him. There came the press of a rubber edge around his nose and mouth, and oxygen as cold and clean as mountain water, then bright lights were flaring and passing overhead. His hands burned. They were pulsing with pain. It was a long, unending scream, never easing, never softening, and he couldn't bear it any longer. 

Passing from the bright lights to somewhere darker, Mycroft let it overwhelm him. 

He closed his eyes, curled up into the quiet that rose around him, and drifted away.

 


	47. Six Years

Jinx wasn't sure what pattern she was drawing on Anthea's back - slow and gentle loops, winding their way from the pretty curve of her hips up to her shoulder blades. Anthea's skin was still damp with sweat and soft as cream. It felt less like she was drawing the pattern on, and more like she was drawing it out, following some hidden path beneath her lover's skin with her fingertips.

It was now maybe midnight; a rest had been called. There came a point where sensitivity tipped pleasure into pain, and Jinx, for her part, was all too happy to lie back and breathe for a while. Anthea was cuddled into her side, all loose brown curls and warm skin, those dizzying curves that Jinx had now appraised in the very closest detail. 

Anthea was as beautiful post-coital as she was mid-climax. This moment was magnificent, and Jinx knew already she'd be remembering this night as long as she lived.

Tilting her head, she pressed a small kiss between her lover's eyes. 

"You alright, princess?" she murmured.

 

*

 

Anthea blinked slowly, rising out of the fog of afterglow. “Hmm? Oh, yes,” she hummed, voice low and smoky after so long voicing her pleasure (and demanding it). She could still feel the gentle static of sated arousal settled on her skin; it gathered under Jinx's fingertips like it was following a wire.

She felt boneless and warm and content. Lying here, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and damp sheets - it felt positively hedonistic. Usually by now she had already deposited her partner on the doorstep, changed the sheets with brisk efficiency, and settled in with a cup of tea and a file or two.

Instead she was lying against Jinx, smooth, naked curves pressed together, floating in a blissful cloud of endorphins.

“Quite a bit better than alright,” she murmured, turning her head to place a kiss on Jinx's collarbone. “And you?”

 

*

 

Jinx inhaled slowly, savouring every single detail. She wished she could bottle Anthea's voice somehow - keep it, listen to it throughout the day - remind herself what it was like to lie here and know she'd caused that smoke, that softness, that languor of mind.

Lifting her head a little, offering her collarbones and neck with a small smile, she curled her arm more closely around Anthea's waist.

"M'perfect," she said. She meant it. "I'm just right. Feel good. In every possible way."

Stretching a little, she lifted her hand to play with Anthea's dishevelled curls - brushing through them, stroking them. Somehow, even after half the night fucking, her curls were still soft and pretty.

_ It's just you, darlin', isn't it...?  _

_ It's just beauty.  _

_ All of you.  _

_ You don't even have to try... _

Smiling, Jinx let her eyes lull shut. 

"Don't know how I'll let go of you in the morning," she rumbled, still playing gently with those gorgeous curls. "Don't know how I'll stop thinking about you. Gonna crash Mr Holmes's car into a tree and lose my job."

 

*

 

Anthea made a soft, amused noise, brushing idle kisses over every piece of skin she could reach without moving too much.

“I don’t think you could crash into a tree if you tried,” she murmured. “Your instincts are far too well honed for that.” She let the other words settle into her skin, warming her and reminding her that yes, she was wanted.

She shivered slightly and pushed her head against Jinx’s fingers. “Oh, yes, like that,” she breathed, eyes fluttering shut. “That feels lovely…” After so long voicing her wants and needs, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to ask for this simple pleasure, too.

It was easy to ask Jinx to give her what she wanted.

_ I know you’ll take care of me. _

She was only able to enjoy the touch for a few delightful moments before her ear caught the tell-tale sound of her mobile. She frowned and pushed herself up. At this hour, the only calls that would be coming through were emergencies of one sort or another - the most dire of circumstances.

She bent and kissed Jinx swiftly before sliding out of bed to grab her still-ringing phone. 

_ Lestrade. What does he want at this hour? _ Ice began to trickle through her veins, dousing the warm glow she had been carrying with her.

The trickle turned into a flood when she answered it.

“Anthea. What - ?” She paled, but didn’t let panic cross her face.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Immediately. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She hung up without saying goodbye and looked towards the bed. “Get dressed. Mr. Holmes is in hospital. We have to go.”

She began getting dressed as she spoke, grabbing fresh clothes from her drawers and putting them on with the speed and efficiency that only came from many years of practice.

 

*

 

"Christ," Jinx murmured, as the phone began to ring. "Who needs you at this hour, darlin'?" 

_ Except me.  _ She stretched her arms behind her head and waited, watching idly as Anthea got up to answer the phone. She made a brief mental check to be certain she'd not left Mrs Collins standing outside a supermarket again, but she didn't think so. They were meant to be alone for the night.

As Anthea hung up, and the words were spoken, Jinx couldn't be sure for a second that she'd heard right.

She sat herself up, watching Anthea rushing into clothes.

"He's -  _ hospital?"  _ The colour began to run from her face. "Has he had an accident?"

 

*

 

“No,” Anthea said shortly. “An intruder in the house. Bypassed the security and made an attempt on Mr. Holmes’ life. Lestrade took care of the threat and brought him to the hospital, where he was immediately admitted and taken to surgery. Beyond that, I have no further details.”

Panic and shock had returned her to her clipped, professional tone. She knew it, and knew there was nothing she could do about it. It was all that was keeping her moving at this point - professionalism and the knowledge that she had to get to Mr. Holmes, right now.

_ I should have been there. _

She knew it was silly. Lestrade was the security professional; it was his job to keep their employer safe.

But Anthea had been beside him for years - her professional career had begun with him, and she was nearly certain it would end with him. When their personal lives fell apart around them, they had always sought refuge in each other, in the reliable nature of their work together.

She couldn’t help feeling as though this was, in some way, her fault. Logic dictated that it wasn’t, and that there was nothing she could have done had she been there, but her emotions were telling a different story.

Of course, very little of this showed on her face. Her lips were a little thin, expression firm and controlled, movements just a bit sharp.

Underthings. Jeans - the first she could find. A t-shirt - closest to hand. She threw her hair up in a messy bun and glanced at Jinx. “Come on then. You’re the professional driver. I need you.” There was a tone there that meant  _ I need you _ \- not just in her professional capacity, but as support.

Anthea could only hope Jinx would hear it. She didn’t have the wherewithal to make it clearer than that.

 

*

 

_ No. _

_ No, that's -  _

_ That can't -  _

Then it was true. It had happened.

All this time, and it had happened - and Jinx hadn't been there. 

Six years. Six years of watching. Six years of guarding.

And now.

Jinx was barely conscious of dressing. She pulled her clothes on without feeling them, her head racing too fast to keep up.  _ An attempt on his life. Surgery. Christ, he could already be -  _

By the time the two of them were hurrying from the flat, headed at speed for the car, Jinx knew. This was it. This was the end of her. An attempt had been made on his life, after all this time she'd spent telling the higher-ups that there was no threat. It was true, and she hadn't been there. She'd been off fucking Mr Holmes's PA. 

And Mr Holmes was in emergency surgery.

As they reached the car and she wrenched open the door, she finally managed to speak. 

"Which hospital? Where?"

 

*

 

Anthea gave the name of the hospital calmly, sliding into the seat with practiced grace. Her seatbelt clicked into place and she pulled out her mobile from her pocket, beginning to send emails at lightning speed. She trusted Jinx to get them where they needed to go; she had other things to worry about at the moment.

If she had thought her workload had been bad whilst Mr. Holmes had been pining over Lestrade - or rather, had been “ill” - it was about to get so much worse, and she knew it.

There were meetings to reschedule, people to inform, cases to take control of, and if she didn’t do it all with the utmost urgency, things were going to come smashing down.

A very tiny part of Anthea, the part she had buried in childhood and was now being nurtured by the woman beside her, was screaming that it wasn’t  _ fair _ that she had to do all this, that she had to take immediate control and begin making plans, that she wasn’t allowed to be upset and frightened.

The rest of her knew that she didn’t have that luxury. These things had to be done, and it was her duty to do them.

Mr. Holmes needed her, now more than ever before, and she was not going to let him down.

 


	48. Too Far

Lestrade had taken Mr Holmes to Stoke Mandeville - close to home, not tried to get him nearer to London. It must have meant he was in a bad way. 

Jinx tried not to think about it as she wrenched them away from the kerb, broke three traffic laws just leaving Anthea's street and headed at speed for the A40. 

Within the speed limit, they were an hour's drive away.

Checking Anthea's seatbelt was on, Jinx set her jaw and reached for the gearstick.

"Gonna push the engine," she warned. "Hold the fuck on."

It was the middle of the night. 

Out of London, the traffic fell away and the road opened wide. 

Jinx took it like there was gunfire against the back wheels. 

She'd not driven this way in years. She'd hoped never to drive this way again. The car raged out towards the Chiltern Hills at a speed that would have terrified an ordinary person. Jinx's military handling never wavered. She knew they'd be safe - she was a part of the car, and it responded to her even at speed. She'd not been there for Mr Holmes when it mattered. She couldn't cope not being there now. 

Locked into silence, not daring to think, she almost missed the sign for Stoke Mandeville. 

As they pulled up outside the doors, she said,

"Go. Go see what the fuck's happening. Find Lestrade. I'll park and follow you in."

Her hands tightened on the wheel. She was white in the face.

"I'll find you, darlin'. Promise. Be fine."

 

*

 

Anthea turned to Jinx, caught her chin, and kissed her firmly. Drawing back, gaze locked on her, she said, “Be quick.”

She unbuckled and slid out of the car, hurrying into the reception area. 

Lestrade was waiting there, pacing angrily. He had clearly been given some sort of attention - there was a gauze pad taped to his shoulder, and he was wearing a vest and jeans that did not fit him at all. She could only imagine that he had been given them from some sort of lost and found bin.

She wondered what that meant about the state of the clothes he had previously been wearing.

As soon as he spotted her, he came over, distress starting to replace the anger in his face.

“They told me he’d be out of surgery by now, but he's not, and no one’s let me see him --" he began.

She cut him off before he could work himself up even more. “I’ll handle it,” she said smoothly.

She went over to the desk and produced several pieces of identification without a word. The young man manning the desk went red, then white. He picked up the phone and made a frantic call to his supervisor, who showed up only minutes later spouting frantic apologies.

Anthea ignored every word. “You will take us to the operating theater,” she said firmly. Her tone brooked absolutely no argument. “If there is a viewing room, we will stay there until the procedure is complete. If there is not, we will be given access to a waiting room. Greg Lestrade, myself, and Jessamine Maguire are to have full access to all information regarding Mr. Holmes. Absolutely no one else is allowed to know  _ anything _ . He is not here. You have never heard of him. Do I make myself quite clear?”

The woman nodded and hurried them along to a waiting room, two floors up.

Out of the blue, Lestrade took her hand and squeezed it desperately. “Thanks,” he whispered.

She gave him a gentle smile. “You're welcome,” she murmured. 

They were sat in a very nice waiting room and told that the doctor would come find them when Mr. Holmes was out of surgery.

“When Jessamine Maguire comes in, you will direct her up here,” Anthea ordered. “And I will need access to the secured wireless network.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said, nodding and scurrying off.

She noticed Lestrade’s look - a mixture of wry amusement, awe, and panic-induced nausea - and quirked a brow at him.

“Nothing. I just forget how scary you are sometimes,” he said. 

“Don't,” she said firmly, pulling out her mobile and getting back to work.

“Don't what? Call you scary?” he asked.

“Forget.”

 

*

 

There was no sign of Anthea or Lestrade down in reception. As Jinx approached the desk, shaking slightly and withdrawing official ID from inside her jacket, the young man there said, "Jessamine Maguire?"

_ Sort of.  _ "Uhh - yes."

A supervisor was summoned at once. The woman arrived looking nervous as hell. Jinx wondered if it was Anthea or Greg who'd caused this state of affairs - probably both.

As she followed the poor woman two floors up, Jinx kept one eye on her phone.

Anthea's e-mails would be reaching their sources by now. At the other end they'd be turning into frantic phone-calls, which would be spreading through the web of the security services at speed. Staff would now be waking up the right people. Situations would be clarified. Lines of rapid inquiry would be followed, and some of those lines would lead to a name. The name was 'Jessamine Maguire'.

It was only so long before someone appeared with rather pressing questions to ask. 

She only hoped she had time to explain, before they did.

As the supervisor showed her into a cushy waiting room, left them all to it and shut the door quickly behind herself, Jinx found the pair of them waiting there.

For some reason, it was the sight of Lestrade that brought the whole misery of this falling into place. She was finished. She was done. One night off, one night out of the house, and the poor bastard was now in surgery. He'd been in surgery a while. That wasn't a good fucking sign. 

Jinx looked at Greg, despairing, and dropped the mask at last like she was shrugging off plate armour. It almost clanged as it hit the floor.  _ Six fucking years.  _ The voice that left her mouth was not her own.

"What the hell happened, Lestrade?"

 

*

 

Greg looked up, face haggard and drawn. The very last of his adrenaline and trained behaviours had drained away, leaving not a security professional, but merely a man who was worried to death for his partner. He was too out of sorts to notice the dropping of the mask.

He tried his best to pull the professionalism back on, like a sweater that had shrunk in the wash.

“An intruder,” he said, weary. “I imagine the same one that killed Kovácic; his attempt was the same. Knife towards the throat, attempt made in the bedroom.”

He rubbed his face with his hand, dropping his gaze. How much should he tell? They were probably being monitored, but to hell with it - he trusted Jinx and Anthea both, and Anthea could secure any security leaks.

He wouldn’t say it outright, but he was sure the women would piece together the circumstances.

“I was downstairs making tea,” he said, sounding disgusted with himself. “I only knew something was wrong when I heard banging on the ceiling - coming from the floor of Mr. Holmes’ room.” It was agony to refer to Mycroft properly, but they all had to retain the illusion of propriety.

“I grabbed a knife and ran upstairs,” Greg said, almost like he was composing and reading a report. “The assassin was forcing a knife towards Mr. Holmes’ throat; he was holding it off with his bare hands. I knocked the guy off balance, and he shouted something at me in some Eastern European language, not sure which one or what he said. He came after me with his knife. I was quicker. Dispatched him quickly, gave Mr. Holmes a pillowcase to hold onto, and drove here.”

He inhaled hard. “The alarm system wasn’t triggered,” he said grimly. “I’ll be going over the footage later, see where the hole is. This can’t happen again.”

 

*

 

Nausea rolled up in the back of Jinx's throat. 

"It wasn't meant to happen  _ once," _ she managed, pushing her hands across her face. "Christ, that's - _ why  _ they assigned - "

She breathed in hard, then out again harder.

"Jesus, you were only meant to be a deterrent.  _ I  _ was meant to - ... and now he's - f-fuck. It wasn't real. I told them it was fine, there wasn't a threat. I told them it was unnecessary even hiring you."

 

*

 

“Wait - you -?” Greg said, distress morphing to confusion. He blinked a couple times, trying to get his brain to catch up to proceedings.

The whole world had gone loony, he was sure of it.

 

*

 

“She’s MI5, obviously,” Anthea said easily, looking up from her mobile. “Installed as a precaution - let’s see, when Mr. Holmes moved out of London. He’s a very valuable asset, but there was no possible way to get him to agree to protection.”

She exhaled softly through her nose. “At least, not until Kovácic was killed. Then you, Lestrade, were hired.”

Her lips thinned, eyes dim. “He was supposed to be safe.”

 

*

 

And there it was.

Jinx felt it fill the room around them. It didn't feel like any weight had lifted; it wasn't any kind of relief, not in circumstances like this. Her throat gripped around the words for a moment.

She found her eyes on Lestrade. She couldn't say this looking at Anthea.

"I -  _ was _ MI6. Shifted over. Same as Holmes did. My name's not Jessamine Maguire." 

The breath she drew made her realise how tired she was - how long this deception had gone on.

"I should've been there tonight," she mumbled. "I didn't think there was a threat. It just didn't seem - ... there'd have been more warning. I was fucking wrong. I failed. Six years and I failed."

 

*

 

Greg folded his arms, unsure how he felt about the whole thing. Jinx - or whatever the hell he was supposed to call her now - being MI5, Anthea apparently fucking  _ knowing _ and not saying anything - there was nothing to do but take it in stride.

“You know, I’m pretty sure I should be insulted that nobody seems to think I’m able to do my job,” he said, only faintly peeved. “Which I did, by the way - he’s alive, and getting the help he needs.”

He gritted his teeth. “It shouldn’t have happened at all, but - there’s no point in beating ourselves up about it. We were all - distracted tonight. All of us. If we had it to do over again, yeah, I’m sure we’d make different choices.”

He inhaled, then exhaled shakily. “But we can’t. We have to live with what’s happened, one way or another.”

That was easier said than done, Greg knew from experience. They would all carry this with them, probably for the rest of their lives.

“We just have to remember it’s not our fault,” he said, as though he were trying to reassure himself. “We didn’t send the assassin. We did our jobs, all of us. It’s over now, and we’re doing what we have to do.”

 

*

 

"I _didn't_ do my job," Jinx said, flatly. "That's beyond _all doubt,_ Lestrade. You two did. _You_ managed it. _I_ fucked up on a pretty legendary scale. I decided things were cosy enough to go gallivanting off and leave you to it."

The urge to belt a chair was overwhelming. Jinx fought it, her hands tightening into fists. 

"I  _ literally _ couldn't have fucked this up anymore without stabbing him myself."

 

*

 

“Hey,” Greg said, frowning, starting to rise. “Don’t -”

He cut himself off when he saw Anthea set her mobile aside. It was startling enough that he wanted to see what she was going to do.

 

*

 

What Anthea did was rise carefully. She went over to Jinx - Maguire - whatever her name was, and wrap her arms around the other woman, pressing close without an inch of leeway.

“Stop,” she murmured. “Just stop. This isn’t helping. You’ll have to face the music soon enough. Don’t get worked up now. We need to focus on Mr. Holmes.”

She tightened her arms and lowered her voice. These words were not for Lestrade to hear.

“They’re going to take you away from me,” she whispered. “Don’t spend what time we have left reprimanding yourself for what’s happened. I need you.”

 

*

 

Jinx stiffened as Anthea's arms went around her. Her eyes flickered to Greg over her shoulder, guarded - but the voice that spoke softly in her ear seemed to ease its way beneath her panic. It was enough to make her breathe, and the breath was enough to make her think.

She lifted her arms, closed her eyes, and pushed her fingers quietly through Anthea's hair.

For just a moment they were lying in bed together again, wrapped up away from the outside world, and everything had come together like it was meant to be last.

"They'll try," she said, darkly. She swallowed, and with another breath began to rock Anthea very gently from side to side. "Wasn't you. Wasn't your fault. If you get asked, I started this whole thing. It's me taking my eye off the job, not you. Right?"

 

*

 

Anthea was tempted to lie for half a moment - assure Jinx that she wouldn’t take any of the blame for this. But the woman deserved better than that, deserved honesty.

“It takes two,” she murmured, closing her eyes and resting her head against Jinx’s shoulder. “I’ll take my fair share of the fallout from this. Nothing more, but I  _ will _ take it, and I’d like to see you try and stop me.”

She squeezed slightly tighter, feeling her breath catch in her chest. It was hard to breathe around the panic and fear, but she had things to say before it was too late.

“I’ll find you,” she promised, whispering the words into Jinx’s skin. “No matter how long it takes, no matter how far you go, I will find you. I swear it.”

She swallowed. “Tell me your name.”

 

*

 

Jinx huffed, softly.  _ Of course you won't let me be noble, darlin'. Should've known. _

She brushed the tip of her nose through Anthea's hair.

"'Jinx'," she said. Her arms tightened a little. "Was 'Jinx' when I caught your eye at last. Must be a lucky name. Think I'll keep it." She hesitated. "If I can..."

Stroking back Anthea's hair, she lowered her lips to her ear. She pressed a little kiss there.

"If you want my  _ birth  _ name... just - know that person did some stuff she's not proud of. Alright? Remember that when you find it. 'Cause I know you will, princess."

Breathing in, she closed her eyes - and said the name.

 

*

 

Anthea smiled softly and nuzzled Jinx gently. “Jinx, then,” she murmured. She’d investigate the name later. 

It wasn’t important now.

She knew their time was running short. She pressed a gentle kiss to Jinx’s cheek and drew back, looking over her shoulder at Lestrade.

He looked dazed, and more than a little lost.

His expression became one of confusion when she held out a hand to him.

 

*

 

_ What…? _

Greg took the proffered hand on autopilot. His brain finally got kicked into gear when Anthea pulled him in close to her and sandwiched him in between herself and Jinx, wrapping him in a supporting hug and encouraging the other woman to do the same.

He was grateful beyond words.

 

*

 

The corner of Jinx's mouth curved. She wrapped her arms around Lestrade, scruffed a hand through his hair and breathed with them both, letting herself realise the worst hadn't happened. 

It wasn't over. 

She might have failed - but the two of them would succeed. They'd look after him.  _ Family of three,  _ she thought.  _ You two and him. _

"Well done, Lestrade," she murmured. "Bloody well done." 

 

*

 

Greg made an acknowledging noise and let himself rest in the comfort of their arms. A fine tremor started through him - the final process of coming down off his adrenaline.

He felt fingers combing through his hair, arms rocking him gently, and let it all take a bit of the edge off.

Mycroft would be okay. Anthea would handle everything. Things were going to be okay, except -

He turned a bit and looked at Jinx with a sad half-smile. “Gonna miss you, sport,” he said, voice rough. “Won’t be the same without you.” He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

 

*

 

For a second, Jinx thought about putting on a grin for him - making some flippant, joky comment. She'd spent months lying to the poor guy. Would another few minutes really hurt? 

_ Yeah. _

_ Yeah, they would. _

There'd been enough things kept quiet - enough things covered up. Enough things had gone unsaid. She could lie to Greg and grin if she wanted, and maybe he'd then remember her as a better form of herself: brave and unbothered and easy.

He deserved better than that, though. 

"We'll see what they do with me," she said, quietly. "I mean... my record's been alright until now. And even Mr Holmes didn't think there was a threat. Might count for something."

Gently, she cuffed his jaw.

"You were always going to do a better job than me, Lestrade. S'easier, protecting someone you love. Life's good when your first priority gets to be your first priority." 

 

*

 

Greg blushed slightly and opened his mouth to say something - a retort, a denial, an agreement, he wasn’t sure - but he was cut off by the arrival of a doctor.

He was an older man who carried himself with dignity and a placid calm. “I’m looking for Anthea Atwood-Hayes, for Mycroft Holmes?” he said, looking between the three of them.

Anthea stepped away. “That would be me.” She pulled her identification out of her pocket and showed it to him.

He nodded. “Right. Mr. Holmes is in recovery. I’ll take you to see him now. You’ll receive the surgery report and the aftercare instructions in the recovery room.”

Greg frowned. “Wait a minute - just her?”

_ No. No, you have to let me see him. _

“Yes, just Ms. Atwood-Hayes,” the doctor said firmly. “If you are Greg Lestrade, you are cleared to receive the information after it has gone through Mr. Holmes’ emergency medical contact - that would be Ms. Atwood-Hayes.” He gave Greg a sympathetic look. “I assure you, Mr. Lestrade, you will be informed in due time. Come along, Ms. Atwood-Hayes. Mr. Holmes shan’t be awake very much longer.”

_ He’s awake, at least. _

_ That’s something. _

Greg stared after the pair of them, looking lost as Anthea and the doctor disappeared into the lift, heading up for the recovery room.

 

*

 

"He's very weak," the doctor said, with an apologetic tone that said he knew Anthea would be well aware. "He's been through a significant shock, and he might not be entirely lucid... please don't be concerned if he seems a little foggy."

They exited the lift, and he led the way along the corridor. 

The recovery room into which he showed Anthea was dark, quiet, and full of the deep calm that only hospitals ever seemed to hold. It was an almost unsettling calm, heavy in itself.

The man lying in the bed was only a shadow. Bare-chested, hair dried into curls, breathing by the grace of an oxygen mask and bandaged most of the way up his forearms, Mycroft was unrecognisable from the man who took the cares of the nation in his stride.

As Anthea was guided to a chair at his side, Mycroft's eyes flickered weakly. They moved to her face, and took a moment to focus, taking her in.

When they did, his chest lifted in a breath. A tiny, exhausted smile passed over his mouth.

"Interrupted your evening," he murmured.

 

*

 

Anthea managed a weak smile. “Yes,” she agreed. “I’m sure you’ll think of a way to make it up to me in time. Interrupted my evening, scared the daylights out of me… honestly, Mycroft, I had better be getting a  _ very _ nice Christmas hamper for this.”

It was a sign of how important this was that she used his first name - even at the estate, in private, he was always ‘Mr. Holmes’ to her.

Here, in the dark, oppressive quiet of the recovery room, there was no room for surnames.

She exhaled softly, expression breaking into relief. “I’m glad you’re alright, all things considered,” she said quietly.

 

*

 

"The very nicest," he murmured. His eyes glittered above the oxygen mask, soft and weary. Each word seemed to cost him a great deal - they were counted out and measured with care, as if every single one drained a sparse resource that he knew was running out by the moment. 

Holding her gaze, he said,

"Tell Greg I'm quite alright. Tell him not to worry."

 

*

 

“I’ll do that, sir,” Anthea said, reassuringly. She didn’t add that telling Greg not to worry was like telling a river not to flow: it was pointless, and only made you look foolish.

“Get some rest,” she said, tone gentle. “Greg and I will be here when you wake up.”

 

*

 

Relief flickered over Mycroft's features. He closed his eyes for a moment, simply breathing, until it almost looked as if he'd once more fallen to sleep.

Then he said, softly,

"Tell him he means everything to me."

 

*

 

Anthea’s heart caught in her throat, but brought a smile with it. “Of course, sir,” she said softly. She touched Mycroft’s shoulder gently. “I’ll be sure to tell him. Go to sleep.”

When his breathing evened out for good, she stood and turned to the doctor. The surgery had gone well, he explained, though Mycroft would not have full use of his hands for months - the knife had cut deeply and severed some of the tendons in his hands. He would need physical therapy to regain full strength and range of motion, but barring any unforeseen circumstances, he  _ would _ get back to normal.

The doctor handed her a thick folder. “This contains the full report and the aftercare instructions,” he said. “Linda,” he pointed to a young woman waiting out of the way, “will bring Mr. Holmes to his room. You’re free to accompany him.”

She nodded slightly. “Thank you.”

He inclined his head and walked off. Linda came over. “Hi there,” she said quietly. “Is there anyone else to come up? Just so’s you’re not running back and forth.”

She nodded again. “Yes. Just a minute, please.” She headed back down to the waiting room, anxiety pulsing through her.

Anthea could only hope Jinx hadn’t had to leave without saying goodbye, but she braced herself for the possibility.

 

* * *

The silence in the waiting room was awful. Jinx could feel the two of them drowning in it, falling apart just feet away from each other - him, worrying about Mr Holmes; her, watching her phone. 

She didn't know how to comfort Greg. She felt like she didn't have a right to say,  _ 'don't worry, Lestrade, he'll be fine' -  _ when it was entirely her fault that he wasn't. Mr Holmes could have been lying in the morgue right now, thanks to her. It wasn't her place to start handing out cheerful promises of how peachy things were going to be.

The fact they hadn't called was worrying her. 

The network of information would be red-hot by now. The attempted murder of an official at Mycroft's level? People would be being dragged out of their beds across the planet. This was the most horrifying thing to happen inside MI5 for years - and it confirmed the link with Stražar. People would be shouting at each other internationally right now about Mycroft Holmes.

And yet here Jinx was, his supposed security force, with no new calls and no new messages.

Anthea had been a while.  _ Lots for the doctor to tell her. All the recovery he'll need. All the therapy.  _

_ Fuck. _

Biting the inside of her cheek, Jinx risked a glance at Greg.

The words heaved against the lining of her throat.  _ I'm sorry. Christ, I'm sorry.  _ They wouldn't come. She couldn't pull them up into her mouth. They would just have to sit there, heavy and awful, until she found a way to make them go quiet.

 

*

 

The door of the waiting room opened. Greg’s head shot up -

But it wasn’t Anthea.

It was a tall man with sharp features - dark, deep-set eyes, jet black hair, and an aura of restrained power that gave even Greg pause.

He didn’t even look at Greg. His gaze locked immediately onto Jinx.

“Agent Maguire,” he said, voice a smooth, low baritone. “You’ve been taken off assignment, effective immediately. You will come with me for debriefing.” 

The threat went unspoken. The man’s presence was threat enough.

 

*

 

Jinx thought about it.

Just the one guy. Only Greg to see. 

There'd be a fast way out of London somewhere - stay low, stay quiet - make themselves scarce and find some corner of the planet it wasn't worth retrieving them from. New names. Hope they were forgotten.

As the thoughts crossed her mind, she realised she wasn't just imagining herself.

Her heart fell.

She was imagining crossing borders after nightfall, with a hand tight in her own. It was the only way she could imagine it. When she imagined cheap hotel rooms to hide in, forged currency and no questions asked, she wasn't sleeping alone beneath the thin and dirty sheets. When she imagined some far-off place to hide, yet another new name, making money somehow to bring home, there was someone waiting at home for her - wherever that was.

There would be no point running, if she was running on her own.

Where would she even go?

There was one place she was meant to be - and if she couldn't be there, the whole world would never feel right. She could throw herself to whatever grubby outreach of it she liked. She'd never find herself where she should be.

And if she couldn't be with Anthea, it didn't matter where she went.

As she looked up at the guy, Jinx's mouth twisted. There was no joy in the smile.  _ Just a job,  _ she thought.

_ Fell too far. _

In silence she got to her feet. Nothing would be gained in fighting this, questioning it. It was happening and the best thing to do was go quietly, not make trouble for Mr Holmes.

Pausing, with a guarded glance at Greg, she realised he was her only chance.  _ I know you hate me. I hate me, too.  _

_ But you like her.  _

She approached him, numb, and put her arms around his shoulders. She held onto him in silence for a while.

Her voice broke.

"For 'Thea." 

Her fists closed gently in the back of his shirt.

"Tell her m'sorry. Be good to Mr Holmes - know you will." She exhaled, holding him harder. "Look after my bike."

As she let him go, she didn't meet his eyes.

"Take care of 'Thea," she said, and turned away.

 

*

 

Greg grabbed Jinx’s arm, spun her back around, and pulled her into a bone-crushing hug.

“I will,” he murmured into her ear. “I’ll take care of them both. We’ll get you back, sport, I promise.”

He squeezed her just a little harder. “Forgive yourself,” he whispered. “I already have.”

The agent waited patiently, though it was clear their time was short. He shifted his weight slightly.

It was obvious that he was ready to pull them apart by force if necessary.

 

*

 

Jinx shook in silence at that word. She'd be walking many miles before she forgave herself a single thing.  _ Least they've got you. A good man.  _

_ Least they'll be okay with you. _

She scrunched her fingers in Greg's hair, tight. She thumped him on the shoulder, military stiff, then let him go.

Head high, silent, she turned and strode from the room. 

Her babysitter could follow her if he wanted. 

 

*

 

Greg watched Jinx and the mysterious agent go, feeling his heart break for the two women he was proud to call friends. 

_ This is gonna smash Anthea apart. _

He sat down heavily, exhaling hard.

The door opened once more, only a few moments later. He looked up from his seat as Anthea entered the room. He saw her eyes flick around the room, saw the faint flash of disappointment and sadness cross her face, and saw it all disappear behind a professional, sympathetic mask.

_ Oh God. You’ve only just missed her. _

It wasn’t fair.

“He’s being taken to his room,” she said quietly. “We’re to accompany him. Come on.”

“Hey, wait,” he said, getting up out of his seat and taking her by the arm.

He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t say that Jinx had only just gone - better to let her think she had been gone for ages.

He hugged her and murmured, “This is from Jinx. Some agent guy came to collect her.” He paused, and squeezed her tighter.

“She wanted me to tell you she’s sorry.”

Anthea returned the hug, blinking rapidly for a few moments. She inhaled, nodded, and stepped away. “Thank you.”

 

*

 

They headed back up the lift, and followed Linda to Mycroft’s room. It was quite nice - more like a hotel room than a hospital room. There was a desk, a couch, and several armchairs. 

There were also monitors, machines, and various tubes strung up about the patient, which placed the room squarely in ‘hospital’ territory.

Greg stumbled to the chair at Mycroft’s bedside, face going ashen. His lover looked so pale and frail, lying in the bed, surrounded by equipment.

He reached out and put his hand on Mycroft’s bicep, eyes watering.

He startled when Anthea touched his shoulder. “He told me to tell you you mean everything to him,” she murmured.

She squeezed gently. “Stay here,” she said. “I’ll be back in a couple hours - I’ll bring clothes with me when I come.”

He frowned. “Wait, you’re leaving? Why?”

She smiled faintly. “The fate of the nation requires careful guidance, Lestrade. You know that. I need to gather several things from my home and the estate. There are things I must do, so I leave him in your capable hands.”

He nodded slowly. “Alright… hurry back, yeah?” he asked.

He was rewarded with another faint smile. “Of course.”

And then she was gone. He was left in the half-dark of the room, listening to the steady hiss of oxygen and beeping of the monitoring equipment.

Now finally alone, he bowed his head and let his emotions wash over him, out of him. He wept silently, never removing his hand from Mycroft’s arm.

 


	49. Private Matter

Mycroft's slow return to consciousness was like the washing of waves across the sand. It came and went for some time, shallow and insubstantial, changing very little. He was a mess of drugs and dreams. He let it come and go, vaguely aware that he stayed awake for a few moments longer each time. He was too exhausted to move yet - he didn't have enough of himself back - but in time, as he rested in the silence, it began to build.

He slowly became aware of sheets tucked around his legs, and the quiet beep of monitors from nearby. They were monitoring him. A vague, fuzzy numbness kept him away from most of his faculties, and as Mycroft laid in the quiet, he found himself missing memories and knowledge and skills. His brain simply wasn't granting him access to those files. It didn't unsettle him too deeply - he knew they would come back, given time.

For now, breathing and thinking were quite enough to be getting on with.

After several minutes of growing accustomed to consciousness once more, Mycroft made a careful attempt to open his eyes. Not to his surprise, he found that they were heavy and resistant, prepared to show him only a blurred suggestion of the room - shapes, colours, light sources.

Mycroft closed them again, gave himself another few minutes, then reattempted.

More, this time - enough to make out that there was an armchair beside his bed, with someone sleeping in it. 

He recognised the breathing.

Stirring, lifting his tired eyes to Greg's face, Mycroft waited for them to focus. He listened to his lover's breathing, quite content within this moment. They were safe, and there was nothing he needed. The sight of Greg asleep was oddly comforting. Already he wanted to be at home asleep in a proper bed - with Greg lying there beside him, watching over him.

He didn't think he'd leave Greg's side again.

The thought prompted a slight elevation in his pulse, reflected by the heart monitor beside him.

 

*

 

Anthea looked over and smiled tiredly, finishing off the last of her coffee. Mr. Holmes was awake at last - good. She closed her laptop and turned in her chair to observe the pair of men, but made no move to get up or move closer. She’d let them have this time together.

 

*

 

Greg stirred as his ears registered the change in the heart monitor in his sleep. His eyes fluttered open, locking immediately onto Mycroft, checking on him automatically.

When he saw blue-grey eyes open, he grinned sleepily and sat up and forward.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said, voice still sleep-rough. “How are you feeling?” He paused. “Oh, wait, hang on - they said your throat would be sore - here, I’ve got water -”

He grabbed the cup and held it for his lover, aiming the straw gently. “Here. Before you try to talk.”

 

*

 

Mycroft smiled as Greg's eyes found his own. He watched the cup being brought nearer to him, and with quiet obedience took the straw into his mouth. His eyes closed and he drank a few slow sips, taking his time to let the liquid soothe his throat.

When he could breathe without the air catching, he drew back from the straw and turned his head a little.  _ Nnh. No more.  _ His eyes stayed closed.

"Weak," he managed, softly. His voice was hard to hear over the gentle beeps. "Pain."

 

*

 

Greg’s heart contracted and he reached up, smoothing down an errant curl. “The doctor said that would be normal,” he said gently. “I’ll call the nurse and get you something for the pain, okay? There’s no gold medal at the end of this.”

He pushed the call button next to the bed; he knew a nurse would be in sooner rather than later. In the meantime, he put a hand on Mycroft’s knee, half-smiling. “Glad to see you awake,” he admitted.

 

*

 

Mycroft huffed, his smile curving a little. He wanted to touch the hand on his knee. He wanted to hold it, play with Greg's fingers, bring it to his mouth and kiss each one gently in turn - but he could feel by the firmness of his surgical dressings that hand movement was now discouraged.

The memory of the panic and the pain tightened his expression slightly.

_ So close. _

_ Moments away. _

That dogged, desperate will to live. It hadn't seemed right to die - not now - not so soon after he'd come alive again. To be cradled in Greg's arms after making love, and have his throat cut by a stranger, in the same hour... it wasn't supposed to be. It felt like the main reason he'd fought so hard. 

He wondered, if he'd not had those moments with Greg so fresh in his mind, whether he'd have made the split-second decision that his hands needed to go in the way of the blade - whether panic and fear would have overwhelmed him, rather than the conviction to live.

He supposed they wouldn't ever know.

Gazing up from the pillow, he watched Greg for a moment in silence. His heart monitor recorded another quiet lift.

"Saved my life," he murmured, soft.

 

*

 

“Course, darlin’,” Greg murmured in reply, reaching up to cup Mycroft’s cheek gently. 

He smiled a little. “I’d offer to do it again, but I’m hoping there won’t be a repeat of that. Ever. Once was too many times.”

Even just the thought of someone coming near his lover again made Greg’s heart clench and his blood boil in one. He’d die before he’d let anything else happen to this man.

 

*

 

Mycroft's expression glowed as Greg smiled. He could feel his heart pulling gently against his ribs.  _ Guard me,  _ he thought.  _ Forever. Take me home. Watch over me. Never leave me. _

Turning his head weakly, he managed to brush a quiet kiss across Greg's fingers.

"I'm sorry." The whisper was heartfelt. "Didn't - appreciate the threat. Should have trusted you. Your instincts."

 

*

 

“Oh, gorgeous,” Greg murmured, expression fond and gentle. “Apology accepted. I’m just glad - glad you got my attention. Glad I got to you in time. It’s over now. We’ll be home safe and sound before you know it.”

He stroked his knuckles over Mycroft’s jaw, careful and gentle. “I’ll keep you safe, darlin’. I promise.”

 

*

 

_ Home.  _

_ Safe and sound. _

It felt almost too wonderful to be true. Mycroft's eyes fluttered, his breath catching in the back of his throat. He realised with a tightening of his heart that he wanted to take some short time away from work. He wanted to spend it with Greg, living quite normally - rebuilding a feeling of safety after them again.

It would be difficult to return to his bedroom. He'd forever be glancing at the door, waiting for...

Shuddering a little, Mycroft closed his eyes. 

_ No. No, a new room. _

He turned his face gently into Greg's fingertips, feeling the fear softening beneath his lover's touch.  _ A room for both of us. The other wing, perhaps. An en suite bathroom.  _

_ As many security updates as the British government can afford. _

They would have everything brought up to the highest level - everything. Greg's every suggestion would be implemented. If they had to transfer to a hotel for several weeks, so be it. If, when they returned, Greg wanted a team of other bodyguards covering the house in shifts, so be it.

This wouldn't be permitted to happen again.

There would be peace from now on - peace, and safety, and home.

Opening his eyes slowly, breathing in, Mycroft looked up at Greg in wonder. Just the sight of his lover was healing; just knowing he was here.

"Is Anthea alright?" he murmured. 

 

*

 

Greg looked over to where Anthea had been working - since Mycroft had been admitted, he was sure, so at least six hours, closer to eight - she was gone. Perhaps she had slipped out while the pair of them had been engrossed in each other; Greg couldn’t exactly deny that Mycroft had held all of his attention since he had woken.

He turned back, and a sort of sad look passed his face. “Honestly? I don’t think so,” he admitted quietly. “She was really worried about you - we all were. And she’s been taking care of things since you came out of surgery. Not sure she’s slept. And -”

How to explain what had happened with Jinx? Greg wasn’t sure he understood it entirely, himself.

 

*

 

Mycroft's brow creased gently. He searched Greg's face, trying to see there what explanation had been placed last for a reason - what was hard for Greg to say.

"And?" he murmured. His throat had picked up an edge of gravel once more; he glanced at the water cup.

 

*

 

Greg grabbed the water and gave some to Mycroft as he chewed on his lip, trying to figure out how best to explain it.

“Well. Jinx - Maguire - turns out she was an MI5 agent,” he said, deciding that there was no easy explanation for any of this. “For your protection. And - she didn’t do her job. She was gone last night. While Anthea was with you, in recovery, Jinx got a call. I’m guessing from her bosses. She left, and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”

He set the cup aside, lips twisted. “She and Anthea were - together,” he said, hesitantly. “Seemed… pretty serious. I’ve never seen Anthea act how I saw her with Jinx last night. And now Jinx is gone. So… Anthea’s having a rough go of it.”

 

*

 

Mycroft listened to all this with an expression of faint uncertainty, as if not sure he was hearing right. He drank silently while Greg talked, processing, wondering how he could probably have missed it. Maguire had been in his household for six years. At no point had she given him reason to suspect she was there on false pretenses.

It made quiet, unsettling sense - and he supposed he'd had no reason to look for falsehood. He'd barely noticed Maguire until the last few months.

If she was now gone, it would be for a reason.

Sadness fogged his gaze. There was little he could do in this moment. When he was more capable, enquiries could be made - questions could be asked. 

For now, even drinking unaided felt beyond his reach.

Hesitating, licking his lower lip quietly, he said,

"Alice...?"

 

*

 

“She’s fine,” Greg said with a warm smile. “She’s being spoiled by Mrs. Collins, although I’ve been told she’s taking to wandering the house looking for us.”

He put his hand on Mycroft’s knee. “Just gives us more incentive to get you home as quick as we can,” he said, squeezing gently. “Although depending on when you’re discharged, Anthea says we might be spending some time in a hotel while she makes some changes.”

Namely, getting the bloodstained carpet out of the house without frightening poor Mrs. Collins to death. The body had already been disposed of - handed over to the government, Anthea had said - but a cleaning service was still required.

Besides. He was pretty sure they’d be moving wings. He was fairly certain he’d never be able to sleep in that room again, to say nothing of how it would affect Mycroft.

Renovations would take time, but they were absolutely necessary and absolutely worth it.

_ Anything for your peace of mind, darlin’. _

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart squeezed with distress, imagining Alice searching for him. She would be worrying. It crossed his mind that if the assassin had thrown him just a little further across the bed, and he hadn't been able to connect his heel with the floor, Alice would have been searching forever.

There'd have been a new owner of the house.  _ The country manor where a minor politician was murdered. _ His collection would have been dissolved and sold off, ended up scattered around second-hand booksellers across the world. Greg would have had to find another client, all while holding that thought in his mind - the man he'd left for five minutes to make tea, then found thrown across the bed in which they'd just made love, the sheets still crumpled, steam from the shower still rising in the air. Anthea would have been reassigned. The peaceful world that had grown around them all would have faded away just as soon as it began.

Instead...

Home. 

Soon, if Mycroft could arrange it. Private medical care in a residence or hotel was eye-wateringly expensive, but he didn't intend to stay here for long. He would recover far faster in quiet private surroundings, with Greg and Anthea and Alice at his side.

And yet the picture, when he imagined it with longing, didn't feel quite complete.

His thoughts lingered over Maguire -  _ 'Maguire', _ he thought - whatever name stood in her mind as the real one. If it were true, and if Anthea had formed an emotional attachment to the woman, it was a rare event indeed. He'd never seen it before.

Breathing in, Mycroft had a feeling the next few days would be frustrating. He would long for home, long for contact with work, long for privacy - and long to put things right.

Giving Greg a look of weary resignation, lifting his knee into the gentle squeeze, Mycroft said,

"I may - n-need you. The coming weeks." He hesitated, reading Greg's face. "Unlikely to be easy... my hands - I-I'm not sure how much function I will have for some time - "

 

*

 

“Don't you worry about that for a second, gorgeous,” Greg soothed, smiling easily. “I'll be your hands for as long as it takes.”

He brushed a hand down Mycroft's arm, careful of the bandages. “There won't be a big enough crowbar in the world to get you away from me,” he said, meeting Mycroft's eyes seriously. His tone lightened again as he continued, “You'll be sick of me in a couple days. Have me locked in a broom closet somewhere.”

His smile settled into something fond. “And Anthea will be here, too. Doing whatever I can't do. We'll be right beside you every step of the way, sweetheart, I promise. You don't worry about a thing.”

It was unlikely Mycroft would ever be leaving his side again. The man would be begging for a few minutes of privacy by the end of this.

Greg didn't care. He was fairly certain that he'd never really let go of the shadow of fear that now hung over them. He'd learn to live with it, but it wouldn't leave.

He only hoped he'd be able to get it to lift from his lover, at the very least. That was all that mattered.

 

*

 

Relief relaxed Mycroft's face as he listened. Just weeks ago, he'd been trying to resolve himself to relying on them  _ less -  _ taking his needs back into his own hands, knowing they'd both leave him one day and telling himself he should prepare for it.

Now Greg was promising to stay by his side, for as long as it took.

It was enough to raise exhausted tears in his eyes. They shone across the surface, not enough to fall but enough to be seen, and more than anything in the world he wanted to reach out and touch Greg's hand - his face - brush a thumb across his lips. He'd only just learned the comfort and relief of human touch again, how superior it could be compared to words. Not having it now was unbearable. 

Gazing into Greg's eyes, Mycroft whispered,

"Your... contract, Greg. Your agency..." His heart tightened; he was sure there were better times to do this, but he needed to do it now. He needed to know. "I-If you were to - leave their books, ahead of the six month probationary... enter my private employment, now..."

Colour flushed across Mycroft's face, the first flicker of distress in his eyes.

"Any conditions you require," he whispered.  _ "Any. _ I'll provide anything you need. Whatever will make this possible."

 

*

 

Rather than answer, Greg got up and leaned forward, kissing his partner sweetly.

After a long moment, he pulled back enough to breathe, “Yes. Of course. A thousand times yes.”

He grinned, eyes shining. “I demand a weekly Smartie allowance.”

There were other, more serious things he knew he would ask for in time - accommodations for his nieces, namely. He wanted them to have their own space, if he was to permanently live somewhere with enough room.

But he knew that would be easy, knew that it wouldn't be a deal breaker. Nothing he would ever need could be.

There was nothing he wanted that would push Mycroft away from him. That knowledge, that security, shone in his eyes as he cupped the man's cheek, smiling warmly.

 

*

 

Mycroft's heart erupted quietly inside his chest. He heard the monitor speed, fluttering as he gazed at Greg across a distance of only inches.  _ You shall have every Smartie in London, you wonderful man. If you want to kick the chancellor down the stairs once a month, I'll arrange it. If you want the house to be rebuilt out of marshmallows and stardust, I'll find a way. _

"Greg," he whispered, lost. He searched his lover's eyes. "Greg, y-you - you are in danger of changing my life..."

 

*

 

“Turnabout’s fair play, darlin’,” Greg murmured, smiling gently. His thumb stroked over Mycroft’s cheekbone. “You changed my life already. For good. Guess it’s my turn, now.”

He pulled the man into another kiss, slow and affectionate.

“You mean everything to me, too, gorgeous,” he breathed, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Mycroft’s. “Never letting you go.” 

 

* * *

 

Anthea gave Greg and Mycroft as much time as she could, but there were some things she needed to discuss privately with their employer.

She shooed Greg out apologetically, sending him down to the dining hall to get some proper (for a given value of ‘proper’) food. She assured him she’d text him when he could come back.

She took the seat on the opposite side of the bed. Without needing to be told, she knew that the other chair was Greg’s - it wasn’t for her to sit in.

She crossed her legs primly and held a folder, quite thick, on her lap. She searched Mr. Holmes’ face, checking on him without words. This needed to be taken care of, but if he wasn’t up for it, she could put it off for a few hours more. Perhaps even a day.

At least she could get the easy things out of the way.

“We’ll be staying at the Savoy, in the Royal Suite,” she began. “While the house is being renovated. Mrs. Collins will be staying with her sister, and Alice will be at the hotel with us - I’ve been assured that a pet is no problem.” When one was paying as much as they would be, a matter like a sleek and elegant creature such as Alice was a complete non-issue.

She flipped open the folder. “I’ve been in contact with the Slovenian government about their wayward citizen,” she said. “That’s all being dealt with internally. We shall be kept in the loop, of course, but I am now confident that the threat is eliminated. It seems as if the gentleman is - ” 

She cleared her throat delicately. 

“ -  _ was  _ a private individual with a military background, whose family were impacted by fall-out from the Stražar Project. Kovácic's betrayal of his country made him the initial target. Your managing role then put you in second place. Literature has been found suggesting that he intended to proceed to all other members of the project, given time.” Her expression morphed to one of approval. “Lestrade's actions have prevented a great number of deaths.”

A faint smile was allowed to grace her face. “Speaking of which - I’ve a contract written up to transfer Lestrade from his agency to your household. I’ll be working out the details with him later, of course, but the structure is in place.”

_ There _ . That should take care of everything Mr. Holmes needed to be apprised of at this point; Anthea would take care of the rest of his responsibilities on her own. Some she had managed to get delegated, though she’d be keeping an eye on them, most she had taken on for herself.

Perhaps it was for the best that Jinx was no longer part of the household. She needed all her focus in the coming days, and the woman certainly had the talent of distracting her.

She resolutely didn’t think about Jinx’s ability to relax and unwind her. There was no use in dwelling on that now. There were things to be done.

 

*

 

Her employer watched her speak without interruption or reaction, his mouth upturned in the very smallest of smiles. An easy calm settled over his features; his blue-grey eyes rested on her face, letting her talk.

When she was finished, he took a moment to process the information.

"The day that I employed you," he said, quietly, "I made perhaps the wisest decision of my life."

He waited, his gaze calm and gentle. It never left her face.

 

*

 

Anthea found a faint, pleased blush rising in her cheeks. It was joined by the smallest of smiles and a dip of her head. “Thank you, sir,” she murmured.

Her smile grew a little, and she lifted her chin again. “If hiring me was the wisest decision of your life, it follows that hiring Lestrade was the best decision of your life,” she said, expression warm. 

Anthea made her employer’s life easy, but Lestrade made it  _ good _ . 

 

*

 

Mycroft's eyes glittered quietly. He glanced down at the sheets, supposing the two of them were alone - there was no danger in being candid with her.

"Rather suspected it even before he saved my life," he admitted in a murmur. "Now..."

He drew a breath.

"I - believe it would be best if the precise nature of our relationship is kept intensely private. I risk no small amount of scorn if it becomes known. Greg, too, would be subject to contempt... something I shan't allow. With all things considered, the risk is one worth taking - and I'm certain that with careful management, it shan't be an issue."

He smiled a little, his thoughts for a moment elsewhere. They returned to him with another breath.

"Might I speak to you about another private matter?"

 

*

 

_ Of course you suspected it before he saved your life, you thick man, _ Anthea thought affectionately. Everyone else, herself included, had known it from the moment Lestrade had set foot on the estate.

Keeping the relationship a secret would be no small task, but she was certain that with careful handling, they would be able to be both discreet and very happy together.

She paused in making a note at the back of her file - about arranging a holiday for them under pseudonyms - and looked up.

She frowned faintly, but nodded. “Of course, sir.”

_ What could he possibly want to discuss? _

She went over her mental list, suddenly worried that sleep deprivation had caused her to miss something.

Accommodations. Assassin. Alice. Mrs. Collins. Lestrade.

What else could there possibly be?

 

*

 

This would not be easy for her to discuss, and Mycroft knew it. She'd been in his employ for many years now, and he'd never breached her privacy in such a fashion. He knew of the discomfort often caused to her by her family - knew of it, but did not pry. Otherwise, he'd tried to honour her with her own space.

But he knew that this time, given space, she would use it to bury her heart and never come back for it.

He couldn't allow that.

Holding her gaze with care, he took a moment to find the right way to say this to her.

"Have you been able to locate Jessamine Maguire yet?" he asked - willing her quietly to understand that this course of action was within his wishes; that he knew she would want to, and she had not just his permission but his conditionless backing; that she needn't ask him, needn't tell him that it hurt - that he saw her wounds already.

He wanted them to be healed. 

One thing would heal them.

 

*

 

Anthea’s breath rushed into her lungs via a sharp inhale. She froze like that; like her body had forgotten the next step. Even as the breath turned painful and she felt her head swimming, she couldn’t seem to let go of it.

_ Jinx. _

She blinked rapidly and turned away for a fraction of a moment to get herself back under control. She finally managed to release the breath slowly, but couldn’t unwind the knot that had settled in her stomach.

After a couple more breaths, she turned back to Mycroft, and said calmly, “No, I haven’t. Nor have I been able to track her via the name on her birth certificate.”

She had found everything, of course; everything associated with that name, everything associated with Jessamine Maguire, everything she could possibly find, she had found.

But not the woman herself. Anthea didn’t care a whit about records or military service or past addresses: she wanted to find Jinx and bring her home.

“I’ve gone as far as my clearance will allow,” she explained, praying that the tightness in her chest wasn’t showing too badly. “I’ve… hit some walls, I’m afraid.”

_Don’t make me ask._ _Please don’t make me ask._

Anthea knew that she wouldn’t be able to ask her employer to help her in this - too many years of seeing relationships as frivolous and a waste of time, too many years of giving each other space regarding their personal lives. There had always been an unspoken pact of secrecy between the two of them, but that meant that all favors and help had to be offered, rather than asked for. 

If he didn’t offer, her search would end.

She just had to have hope.

 

*

 

Mycroft let her speak, let her have the moment she needed to feel quite safe in his presence again. He realised they needed to do this cleanly, simply, and without room for misunderstanding. 

"My clearance will bypass some of those walls," he said, and his voice was gentle. "When I'm discharged, I imagine that I'll be tasked with rest and recovery. Much of my usual work will be beyond my capabilities - and I imagine you have most of it reassigned already... but I will require occupation. It will be vital for my mental welfare."

He watched her, carefully.

"I would like you to have my laptop adapted for voice commands," he said. "I'd like you to transfer all the information you've found to me. I'd then like you to consider that the matter is out of your hands, transferred safely into mine, and you are relieved of those concerns. I will deal with that issue. You may concentrate on other things, knowing that I shall resolve it for you. Will this solution work for you?"

It was the gentlest way he could think to say,  _ will that help? _

 

*

 

Anthea found the knot in her stomach slowly unwinding, tension bleeding from her shoulders, as Mycroft spoke.

To her surprise, she also found a sheen of tears in her eyes - grateful tears, relieved tears.

She blinked them away and swallowed, nodding slowly. “That sounds like an excellent solution.”  _ Thank you. _ “I’ll get the preparations in place as soon as I’m able.”  _ Thank you. _

_ Thank you. _

She reached forward and touched his forearm, just for the briefest of moments. “Thank you,” she murmured.

 

*

 

Mycroft admired for a moment the strange twist of fate that the day he temporarily lost the use of his hands was the day he most sorely wished to use them.

"Gratitude quite unnecessary," he murmured, his gaze gentler than ever. "All will be well. An unusual few weeks ahead of us - then after that, peace. A return to a much happier normality."

_ I will find her. I shall find a way to return her to you, and she'll be home. _

_ I promised you some way to express my gratitude. _

_ You will have it. _

Mycroft let the quiet warm between them for a moment. It had been an emotional conversation, in a day of emotional conversations - and for both of them, some practicality might be soothing. 

"I wondered if you'd be kind enough to have a few items brought to me from home, Anthea... nightwear, chiefly. The books on my bedside. Greg has offered to read them to me. You'll find them beside the photograph of Alice from last Christmas... perhaps you could bring that, too."

He gave her a quiet smile.

"If you'd retrieve Greg from the canteen for me first, I'd be grateful. Rather accustomed to company now, thanks to the pair of you..."

 

*

 

Anthea smiled and rose. Her file, she held in one arm. Her free hand already held her mobile, sending a text to Greg that his presence was requested back in the room. There was much to be done, but it didn’t seem so overwhelming, now.

They would come through this, all of them, together.

“At your service, Mr. Holmes.”

 

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for coming all this way with us. <3 We hope you enjoyed _At Your Service_ , and we'd love to know what you'd like to see in future stories. Thank you for all your comments and kudos. It's been amazing sharing this story with you guys. 
> 
> We'll see you on the next one. <3
> 
> All our love,
> 
> Davi & Moth xx

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Lady of the Manor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611421) by [Rosella92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosella92/pseuds/Rosella92)




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